


The Dartboard for Witches

by QuickYoke



Series: The Wonder Years of the Greatest Generation [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cold War, Drama, Espionage, F/F, oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1962 and Peggy heads off on a mission to stop the Cuban Missile Crisis. Too bad she hasn’t been out in the field since 1945. And there’s a new Soviet assassin after her. And is that grey in her hair? A sequel to ‘The Wreckage of Stars’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_In the marketplace they are piling the dry sticks._

_A thicket of shadows is a poor coat. I inhabit_

_The wax image of myself, a doll’s body._

_Sickness begins here: I am the Dartboard for Witches._

_Only the devil can eat the devil out._

_In the month of Red leaves I climb to a bed of fire._

_-Sylvia Plath ‘Witch Burning’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

These days Peggy felt like she had a bright red target painted on her forehead.

“No, sir, I told you years ago that I had my suspicions concerning MI6 –”

A barrage of expletives roared through the phone, and Peggy held the receiver away from her ear with a decidedly unimpressed expression. She tapped a pen against her chin, working on a crossword puzzle in that morning’s newspaper spread over her desk. Headlines across the top of the paper exclaimed in bold letters: ‘CONFESSION REVEALS NEW INFO ON THE CAMBRIDGE FIVE.’

Peggy wrote ‘BLUNT’ for ‘a five letter word for dull.’

At last there was a pause on the other end of the line, and Peggy continued, “Sir, if you look back through your files, you’ll find my report on suspected double agents in MI6. I sent it to the White House after the disappearance of Burgess and Maclean in 1951.”

Apparently that wasn’t the answer Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson wanted. She held the phone away again, calmly writing ‘CARDINAL’ for ‘an eight letter word for a senior ecclesiastical leader.’ When the hollering on the other line died down, she brought the receiver back to her ear once more, “No, sir. I will not send you a list of our double agents overseas.”

Johnson’s voice growled through the phone, and Peggy froze. Not because of the Vice President. She stared down at the clue for eighteen across – ‘a nine letter word for a mythological water monster.’ Slowly she wrote ‘LEVIATHAN,’ her pen dragging the last stroke upwards in a sharp flourish.

“No, sir,” she said, eyes hardening, “I’m afraid I don’t trust anyone. Not even you. Consider it an occupational hazard.”

He would have continued – probably for ages, if she let him – but Peggy hung up, knowing that doing so would make him spitting mad. He wasn’t a bad sort, Johnson. He just had this way of overpowering those around him. Peggy knew that he found her incredibly frustrating to deal with. Most people buckled under the weight of his presence, but time and time again she would rebuff his attempts at alternately dominating, persuading, and cajoling.

To his credit, though, he was a bloody hard worker. She just wished he’d get off her back. She had enough on her own plate, thank you very much.

Something there was that made her a target for unwanted drama. Maybe she should check for a sign stuck to her back that said ‘PLEASE TARGET ME’ in big letters. Howard did love his little games, after all.

Which was another source of comparatively minor irritation. She said ‘minor’ because Howard’s growing alcoholism problem was hardly on par with matters of international security. Still it was something she encountered more and more often as the years went on. All her attempts at discussing the issue with him were discarded, or course. Alcoholics rarely enjoyed such things.

Until it actually became detrimental to the job, however, Peggy would continue to turn a blind eye. Much as it pained her to do so.

But no matter what decade that’s what it always came down to. The Job.

Pursing her lips, Peggy jabbed the tip of her pen onto the newspaper, stabbing small black marks beside the ‘N’ in ‘LEVIATHAN.’ The organisation had continued to be a thorn in her side since she first encountered it back in 1946. Leviathan – the Russian subsidiary of HYDRA. Like a corporate branch. It made her wonder, not for the first time, just how many branches there were, how many heads that needed cutting off for the beast to be well and truly slain.

With a sigh, she tossed the pen down and rubbed at her eyes. Almost instinctively she turned her wrist over to check the time. She blinked. Then she cursed under her breath.

She was going to be late to dinner. Angie would have her hide.

Snatching up her coat from where it was draped across one of the chairs in her office, Peggy rushed out even as she pulled it on.

“You’re going to be late,” Sousa reprimanded idly as she passed his desk on her way towards the exit.

“Lord, don’t remind me,” she fiddled with the line of buttons down her double-breasted coat.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he called before she got too far.

She turned on her heel to find him holding up a bottle of red wine and a bouquet of pink-throated lilies, “Have I given you a pay raise recently?”

He shrugged and grinned, “Not since 1953. I could always do with another.”

Taking the items from him, she gave a grateful smile, “Have a good evening, Daniel.”

“You too, ma’am,” he said to her retreating back, returning to his paperwork, “And good luck!”

Good luck, indeed. She would need it too, where she was going. A muddled idiom came to mind then. Something about fools and angels and treading.

Luckily she had missed the rush hour bustle, so when she made her way down into the subway it was with relatively little disturbance. It was a three minute wait for her train, but that was where her luck ran out. Stepping onto the train, she felt a prickle walk an icy track down her spine.

That seemed to be happening more and more often these days. This time felt different, though.

Gaze darting all around, Peggy noted her surroundings. Nobody seemed to be watching her or trailing her. Two girls chatted side by side, blithely ignoring anyone else on the train. A man scratched at his ear and gazed out the window as the train lurched into motion. Various other people went about their business, and none of them Peggy could have reasonably suspected of mischief.

Then why could she not shake that damnable feeling?

She got off three stops too early, then jumped onto the first train going in the opposite direction. The feeling remained. In fact, if anything, it seemed to grow with intensity. Stepping off that train at the next stop, Peggy emerged from the platform and walked.

Dusky night was beginning to descend, purpling the sky. Turning down the nearest side alley, Peggy shrugged off her coat, placing it on the ground and then carefully laying the bottle of wine and the flowers atop it.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she called out to the empty alleyway, hands on her hips, “I have somewhere I need to be, so if you’re going to attack me, I’d really prefer you do it now.”

Peggy cocked an eyebrow. Rolling her eyes, she pulled out her Walther PPK – still her favoured firearm after all these years – picked the most logical shadowy corner to hide in, and took a shot that echoed across grimy brick walls.

Nothing again.

Lowering the gun, Peggy frowned, puzzled and slightly put-out. Maybe she really was going senile –

\--Oh, wait. No. That was definitely a garrotte.

Careening backwards to avoid the wire, she tucked the pistol under her arm and aimed a wild shot behind her. Much to her disbelief, her assailant dodged it, and before she could think to herself – _How on earth -? –_ they were whirling about for another attack.

Peggy blocked the kick with her arm, grunting from the impact. Immediately she had to parry another blow. She was losing ground fast. A swift kick to her wrist knocked the pistol away, sending it skittering beneath a soiled, feculent dumpster.

Oh, now that was just rude.

An opening in the barrage, and she swung, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath her fist. She managed to get in a few more hits, even while taking a punishing herself. By almost two minutes in, Peggy was panting, but she had her assailant pinned against a wall. For her efforts she received a knee to the gut, and when she went to repay the favour with her fist, they ducked and her knuckles collided with brick instead.

Swearing loudly, she spun away, tearing at a small device tucked under her belt. Howard had said only to use it in case of emergencies, and this seemed like the right time. Pressing the button, she swung her arm around in a broad arc, sending a warped beam of pure heat and energy all across the alleyway.

Try as they might, her assailant couldn’t fully escape the blast. She noticed with a sense of smug satisfaction that they clutched at a livid scorch mark on their shoulder as they scampered a retreat off into the night.

Peggy let out a whoosh of air from her lungs. Ignoring the still smouldering lines carved into brick and asphalt alike due to Howard’s emergency device, she knelt down to retrieve her pistol from beneath the dumpster with a grimace. While putting her coat back on – this time with a wince – she checked her watch.

She was really late now.

At least the flowers and wine bottle remained intact.

Exactly fifty-six minutes late, Peggy arrived at the front door of her in-law’s apartment in Brooklyn. She fixed her hair and steeled herself to knock.

Peggy Carter: indomitable ex-Colonel of the British Armed Forces, Director of one of the world’s largest spy and anti-terrorist organisations, absolutely terrified of her mother-in-law.

Perhaps ‘terrified’ wasn’t the right word. It was more on the lines of ‘wary.’ She was incredibly, categorically, viscerally wary of her mother-in-law.

Not that the term ‘in-law’ was ever officially used. Everyone in Angie’s family knew what their relationship entailed – you’d have to be blind and dumb to not realise that she and Angie had been banging each other’s brains out for nearly nineteen years now. But nobody mentioned it outright. Instead Peggy was sternly, resolutely, teeth-clenchingly referred to as Angie’s _“…friend.”_

Originally Peggy thought she could charm Angie’s mother. When she had said as much, Angie had given her this _look_. Like Peggy had started vomiting sulphurous soup and needed an exorcism.

And Peggy had tried to endear herself. She really had. But Angie’s mother never forgave her after their first train wreck of a meeting.

Honestly, how was Peggy supposed to have prevented two traitorous double agents and an _actual train wreck_ from ruining their evening? She was good, but she wasn’t _that_ good.

It certainly didn’t help that they had to hide the truth about both their jobs and Angie’s robotic leg. Angie had plain refused to mention the amputation. If anything, she was worried more about that than hiding their relationship in plain sight. The prosthetic was good enough that it could blend in under a layer of stockings, or pants and socks. Not that there hadn’t been a few suspicious incidents.

Like the time Angie got over excited one summer playing with her nephews, and accidentally launched a football clean over three rows of houses and into the next county.

Or that time very early in the stages of a new programming system Angie was working on, when the knee had a critical malfunction, and Peggy had been forced to drag her into a nearby bathroom before anyone could notice. It had taken Angie over eight minutes to fix the problem. Peggy knew because she had been counting every second they were locked away in there, making suspicious clanging noises, as well as the occasional exclamation of surprise. They’d emerged to a roomful of dour Italian in-laws, all glaring over their glasses of Chianti.

Alright, so maybe Angie’s mother had good reason to dislike her. But that only meant Peggy was that much more determined to rescue her maligned reputation.

As she knocked on the door, Peggy thought to herself that she’d rather be back fighting that mysterious assassin, if she were to be perfectly honest.

The door wrenched open to reveal Angie standing there in an apron, a kitchen towel flung over one shoulder. She took one hard look at Peggy and hissed, “Really? Blood on your hands and face? Again?”

Glancing down, Peggy noticed for the first time that – whoops – there really was blood on her knuckles, “It isn’t mine, though!” she insisted.

Some of it was probably hers.

“Oh, great! I feel so much better!” Angie rolled her eyes and began wiping at Peggy’s jaw with the towel, which was already stained with red marinara sauce – rather fortuitously, Peggy thought. Almost like she had been expecting something like this to happen.

Then again she probably had been.

“I brought gifts,” Peggy offered lamely.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Angie finished making Peggy look more presentable. “What am I going to do with you, English?” she pressed a quick kiss to Peggy’s check, “C’mon. Everyone’s waiting.”

Peggy nodded, rolling her shoulders as though preparing for a battle. She braced herself for all the barbed comments and scathing glances soon to come, “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peggy always woke up first. Sleeping in was for lazy Saturdays and the weak. And since it was not Saturday, Peggy rose at her usual five thirty in the morning. Back in the Army, running and waking up early had begun as the bane of her existence. After almost ten years of service, however, it became second nature, etched into her bones like grain into wood.

It was only when she emerged from the shower after her morning run – nursing a blooming bruise across her ribs from her scuffle with an assassin the previous night – that Angie so much as stirred. Peggy dropped a kiss onto her mussed head peeking from the blankets, before heading over to the closet to pick out her outfit for the day.

Something smart. Something blue. Something with a subtle red highlight – or perhaps not so subtle, truth be told.

Just another day in the office.

Peggy left without Angie, who had only just dragged her sorry groaning carcass from bed. Angie would follow later, while she herself preferred to be one of the first to arrive at work.

For the first few months it had been strange, working with Angie in the same place. Peggy had never experienced something quite like it before. Working with someone. Commuting with someone. Heading back home with someone. All while never once losing that sense of solidarity, intimacy, that easy rapport. These days it felt natural.

Imagine that. Her past self from 1943 would scoff at the notion. Or perhaps choke up a bit, thinking about Steve. Probably both.

She still kept that monochromatic photo of him around, the image fading with age like an old _grisaille_ painting. For years she kept it hidden away, as though it were some sort of charm. Until Angie found it back in ’57 and demanded it be framed and hung above Peggy’s vanity mirror.

Bless her.

Of course Angie had wrestled that little titbit of information from Peggy’s tight-lipped history as well. She never was satisfied with half-truths and veils thrown over the names of people in stories, that girl. Always she pressed for more, and always Peggy would give it. Eventually. It was only a matter of time.

Come to think of it, Peggy should employ her as one of SHIELD’s expert resident interrogators. One of the ‘nice’ ones, of course. Armed with clever coffee and smiles and a mind too quick for her own good.

Stepping into SHIELD’s headquarters, that morning’s paper tucked under one arm, Peggy polished an apple on her leg like a cricket bowler. She crunched into it, teeth cutting, as she made her way to her office at the very back, beyond all the open-faced cubicles. At first she had balked at the placement – too much like a king’s throne before rows of doting subjects – and she had only been talked into it when half of the enormous original office had been partitioned off as a kitchenette. Even then she had been suspicious, until she realised everyone in the office could access it.

That and the fact that Howard kept the kitchen well stocked with Jaffa cakes.

Curse him. Curse him for knowing all of her weaknesses.

Even with an apple in her hand, and a large chunk of it tucked away in one cheek, Peggy slipped into said kitchen and grabbed a handful of Jaffa cakes.

Hey, she worked out that morning. And pretty much every other morning on top of that. As far as she was concerned, she deserved that handful of Jaffa cakes and then some. In fact, Peggy wondered if she could put this handful into her pocket and grab another.

That was how Daniel found her, caught in the horns of a dilemma – one hand holding an apple, the other balancing a handful of chocolate covered cakes and trying to not drop her newspaper as she stuffed her pockets full.

Just another day in the office.

“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted without batting an eye, moving to brew the first pot of coffee, “You’re looking as dignified as ever.”

“Oh, shut up and hand me a plate.”

Grinning he reached up to open a cupboard and pushed a small plate onto the counter in front of her, “Heard Johnson’s voice from halfway across HQ yesterday. He didn’t sound very pleased.”

“He rarely is. Not that I can blame him. I don’t envy his job,” Peggy freed her hands of cakes and took up the plate, “Anything interesting for me this morning?”

Daniel shrugged, watching the coffee machine drip with the avidity of a man who spent too many late nights at his desk. His crutch had long since disappeared. These days he sported one of Angie and Howard’s prosthetics, albeit a normal one. As ‘normal’ as Angie and Howard could make, in any case. One without rockets. As far as Peggy knew, however, it did contain a small storage area where he stashed an extra firearm in case he ever needed it in a pinch.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he admitted, “You received word from Secretary General Stikker. Again.”

“Ugh,” Peggy rolled her eyes and headed to the door, “Wanting to discuss ESRO, no doubt. I’ll ring him this afternoon.” She checked her watch, careful not to tilt and dump her plate of cakes on the floor.

“Oh, one more thing,” Daniel added before she left, “A few files came in late last night. From Bolivia, of all places.”

Humming around another large bite of apple, Peggy’s vowels drawled, “On my desk?”

Daniel nodded, “Already waiting for you.”

Getting the door open to her office was the real challenge. She looked from her full hands to the door knob and back again, before settling on sticking the apple between her teeth and opening the door. Once inside, she flicked the lights on, dropped her plate and paper down on her desk, then made her way to the chair, shrugging out of her coat and casting it aside as she did so. It landed on a spare chair – as it always did – and she sat behind her desk.

Reaching up to take the apple from her mouth, Peggy pulled the files Sousa had mentioned towards her. They were stamped with a bold red ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ but then again what files crossing her desk weren’t? Honestly she would be more surprised if they had been unmarked.

She flipped the first one open and immediately her gaze hardened.

Oleg Penkovsky was still keeping tabs on Ivan Serov, but this month he submitted his report two weeks too early.

There were precisely two files. The first one was not about Ivan Serov.

Snatching up the nearby phone, Peggy dialled a number. She tapped her fingers impatiently until the call was answered, “Get me Lyndon B. Johnson.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman on the other line said, but she didn’t sound very apologetic, “He’s just about to head off for a flight to Chicago.”

“Cancel it.”

Peggy picked up the single page contained in the first file. A photograph. Badly blurred. It was of a Soviet R-12 intermediate-range nuclear ballistic missile. Underneath it Penkovksy had scrawled only one word.

‘CUBA.’

Just another day in the office.

 

* * *

 

By the time Angie arrived at work, SHIELD headquarters was a bustling hive of activity. Peggy had closed the curtains of her office, which was standard practice when she was dealing with sensitive material or meetings that required discretion. Usually closed curtains acted as effectively as a large ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign. Most people stayed out if they knew what was good for them.

Angie on the other hand burst right in, looking furious.

“You ordered a Dragon Lady? Without me?”

Peggy held up her hand, phone cradled between ear and shoulder, “Of course, sir. I’ll let you know more as soon as we have more conclusive evidence.”

She gestured for Angie to shut the door while Johnson rumbled on the other side of the line, “I trust my agent’s intel, sir. He is in a position where he would logically come across this information.”

Angie did shut the door, but only with a huff. She crossed the room to stand behind Peggy’s chair and whisper loudly, “At least tell me you got the U-2C variant. That J57-P-37A engine has a crap intake system.”

Peggy craned her neck back to give her an incredulous glare, still talking into the phone, “I understand, sir” Then she hung up and levelled an admonishing look.

Naturally Angie shrugged it off, “A Lockheed U-2, English. _Without me.”_ She repeated it as though Peggy had spat in her mother’s _tagliata di manzo._

With a sigh, Peggy opened her mouth and was about to explain that: no, she did not know exactly which variant had been sent to take reconnaissance photos of nuclear weapons in Cuba – when Howard suddenly burst into the room.

“I heard something about a Dragon Lady!” he panted. He looked as if he’d sprinted all the way from his lab.

Peggy threw her hands up, “Good God, people! Does nobody knock anymore? Is it out of fashion?”

Both Angie and Howard ignored her.

“She won’t tell me which variant she sent,” Angie said to Howard, shaking her head in disappointment, “I bet it’s the old U-2A.”

Howard just looked puzzled. His brow crinkled and he leaned on his knees, “What are you talking about? I thought she ordered in a –”

Peggy knew exactly what he thought she had ordered in. “You’re disgusting!” she hissed.

She threw a Jaffa cake at him for good measure.

Now it was Angie’s turn to look confused, “Wait…what -?”

Peggy’s hand slapped down atop the desk, a sharp crack snapping through the office, “That’s it! Both of you – out! You may enter in an orderly fashion _after knocking!_ You may then greet me ‘Good Morning,’ at which point we will discuss how lovely and vapid this brisk Fall weather is! Then – and only then – may you ask questions!”

At that exact moment, however, a soft knock rapped at the door, even though the door was open. Daniel poked his head cautiously around, “Ma’am?”

Peggy jabbed a finger at him and aimed a glare at Angie and Howard, “See? You can start by taking notes from Agent Sousa.” She gestured for Daniel to enter, “Close the door behind you, Daniel.”

“Hang on. Do you still want us to –” Howard began, but cut himself off when Peggy gave him a look, “Ok. Never mind. Not my fault you give unclear instructions.”

Daniel waved a folder and handed it to Peggy across her desk, “We have the first batch of photos processed.”

Peggy’s eyebrows climbed, “That was fast,” she murmured, flipping the folder open. She spread the still glossy photos out, standing to peer down at them from a better angle. The others all crowded around as well, curious.

“Damn,” Peggy muttered, tapping one of the photos with a red lacquered fingernail.

She had almost been hoping Penkovsky had been misinformed.

“Damn!” she repeated more vehemently, “I told Johnson we shouldn’t have put those missiles in Turkey! I _told_ him the Russians would only seek to retaliate in kind!”

Angie frowned and cocked her head, “Where are these located? The Crimea?”

“Cuba,” Howard said, and even he looked a little pale. Or perhaps he had just drunk too much last night and was still recovering from a hangover.

“ _Shit.”_ Angie stared. Even after all these years she still swore under her breath, as though afraid her mother was lurking just around the corner.

Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose and asked Daniel, “How many more fly overs do we have planned?”

“Quite a few,” Daniel replied, “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh!” Angie snapped her fingers, “Two things! Howard, can we reconvene in the lab to talk about lens magnification? I want to see if we can develop a camera that will have better image quality. And Peggy, before I forget,” Angie cleared her throat, “can we speak privately?”

Peggy shuffled through the photos, face fixed in a contemplative scowl. She stuffed a Jaffa cake into her mouth and mumbled around it, “Whatever it is, Angie, I’m sure we can discuss it in front of Howard and Daniel.”

They were, after all, practically family at this point.

Angie looked dubiously between Howard and Sousa, shrugged, then said, “Ma was asking about grandkids last night.”

Peggy choked.

Alright, so Howard and Sousa weren’t _that_ close. They certainly shouldn’t be privy to _this_ conversation.

Swallowing past the cake stuck in her throat, Peggy put on her best smile. Even to her it felt strained, “Gentlemen, won’t you please excuse us?” She grabbed each of them by the arm and steered them out of her office.

Daniel, of course, went without complaint, but Howard smirked over his shoulder, “You sure you don’t want me here for this conversation, Peg? I’d be more than happy to – ah – _help_ you two out with your little situation.”

In response Peggy slammed the door in his face.

Gathering herself with a deep breath, she turned to face Angie, “Start from the beginning, won’t you?”

Angie stole one of the Jaffa cakes, ignoring the frayed apple stem on the plate beside them. It was a habit Peggy had developed as a child during the interwar period, eating the whole apple, even the core and seeds, meticulously chewing on the stem, “She cornered me when you were playing with the twins,” Angie said, “Started pestering me about kids of my own.”

By ‘playing with the twins’ Angie actually meant that Peggy had taken her nephews into the yard out back and given them basic lessons in Krav Maga.

“But-!” Peggy floundered, “We’re almost too old to have children!”

“I know. I think that’s why she brought it up.” Angie made a face, then did an alarmingly good impression of her mother, “Angela, where the _nipoti,_ huh? Look at your sisters! Soon I will be too old to pick little ones up!”

Glancing at the door as though afraid Howard had his ear pressed to it, Peggy lowered her voice, “Can’t we have this discussion at home?”

Angie glowered, “I tried! But _someone_ had other ideas last night!”

“If I recall correctly, you quite appreciated my ‘other ideas.’ There was an awful lot of ‘Don’t stop!’ from you, in fact.”

Peggy plain refused to apologise for that. Especially when they’d so thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

Straightening her shoulders, Angie smoothed down the front of her shirt, “Yes. Well. I just thought I should let you know, before you get distracted again.”

“You thought I’d get _distracted_ at work?” Peggy asked incredulously.

Not that they hadn’t christened her desk in the past. And the shower in the women’s locker room. And Howard’s lab after hours that one time – Lord help her if he ever found out.

Angie gave her a disbelieving stare, and just picked up a picture of the missiles in Cuba, waving it in front of Peggy’s face.

Oh. Right. _That._

Peggy cleared her throat and tried sounding as officious as possible. Her ‘UN Voice’ Angie called it, “I appreciate you not wanting me to be blind sighted by your mother at our next Sunday dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” Angie shook her head, “Now, I’m heading to the lab. We’ll continue this conversation later?”

“Of course,” Peggy moved to sit back behind her desk, and Angie moved to leave. When they passed each other, Angie pressed a short kiss to Peggy’s cheek.

Angie had her hand on the door knob when she said over her shoulder, “Are there any more surprises we should know about before Russia blasts us all to smithereens?”

As nonchalant as possible, Peggy hid Oleg Penkovsky’s second file beneath the aerial photos. Then she awarded Angie with her most winning smile, “Of course not, darling.”

Just another day at the office.


	3. Chapter 3

“I have to leave in the morning.”

Peggy announced it as she normally did, sitting at her vanity and pinning up her hair, while Angie was already curled up in bed, scribbling ideas down for her latest work in the lab.

Angie didn’t even look up. Just bit at her lower lip and scratched at her notebook with a pencil, “Oh, yeah? How long this time?”

Peggy watched her in the mirror, openly admiring the way Angie’s teeth worried at her lip, and the cute furrows in her brow, “Two weeks at most. I need to monitor this Cuba business closely. Hopefully I can nip it in the bud before it gets too out of hand.”

She turned her attention back to her own reflection. A small irate _tsk_ escaped her as she ran a hand over her temples, fingers digging into the streaks of visible grey in her hair there.

“You could always dye it, you know,” Angie sounded amused.

Peggy glared, “Never.”

She knew it was stubborn, but it would feel like admitting defeat to old age. Better to wear the years with pride and some last shred of decency.

The sheets rustled as Angie shrugged and said in a soft sing-song voice, “Suit yourself!”

That was easy for _her_ to say. Angie’s hair still glinted rich and brassy in the low shaded lamplight. She didn’t even have a hint of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. In fact she looked as young and spritely as ever. Her face had gained a more angular quality over the years, but Peggy was hard pressed to find any other indications of age.

On the other hand Peggy studiously ignored the fine wrinkles at the edges of her own eyes and mouth. ‘Laugh lines’ Angie would call them when she traced Peggy’s face with the barest sketch of her fingertips. ‘A sweet liar’ Peggy would call her when she did so.

With a theatrical sigh, Peggy rose from the vanity and crossed the room, lowering herself into her side of the four-poster bed. Most of Howard’s ridiculous furnishings had remained throughout the years. Every third year Mr. Jarvis would appear at the front door with a professional decorator in tow – a chilly Milanese woman by the name of Giulia, whom Angie loathed.

Peggy never really did find out why. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Giulia breezed about in her spotless Prada and Valentino as though she owned the place. Perhaps it was the way she peered down her long stately nose, eyes dark and viscous as amber. They had exchanged exactly one conversation in heated Italian when Giulia had first walked into the kitchen while Angie was making _ossobuco._ After which Angie had slammed the oven shut and stormed out of the apartment, announcing loudly that she wouldn’t return until ‘that _zoccola’_ was gone.

Peggy’s Italian may have been a little rusty, but even she knew what that meant.

If Giulia was flustered in any way, however, she gave no indication of it. In fact if anything she had seemed pleased. Smug. Then she had turned her full attention on the apartment and did what she did best. Meanwhile Peggy and Mr. Jarvis had exchanged hesitant glances over their cups of tea. They didn’t dare interfere. And when Giulia left, Angie had come stomping back.

Peggy didn’t press for details. She also didn’t mention her appreciation of Giulia’s taste. She liked her head firmly attached to her shoulders, and her relationship intact – thank you very much.

Snuggling down into the plush sheets Giulia had picked out – and which perfectly matched the décor – Peggy burrowed her head into the pillows. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she felt Angie’s fingernails lightly scratching the nape of her neck.

“So,” Angie drawled, setting her notebook and pencil aside, “Two weeks, huh? That’s a long time for a poor girl like me to be cold and alone.”

“We’ve had longer,” Peggy pointed out, voice muffled into the pillow.

“Yeah, but it sure would be nice to have a steamy memory to keep me warm while you’re away.”

Those fingers danced along Peggy’s shoulder and down to her collarbone.

Peggy shifted so that she was sprawled out flat on her back, “You do realise I have to wake up very early to catch my flight tomorrow?”

With a derisive snort Angie swung one leg over so that she was straddling Peggy’s waist, “C’mon, Grandma,” she teased, smoothing her palms over Peggy’s breasts, and grinding down with her hips, “It’s only nine thirty.”

The breath hitched in the back of Peggy’s throat. She reached up to grasp at Angie’s hips, watching as Angie grinned, as Angie’s eyes went hooded, bright and wicked all at once. Angie removed one of Peggy’s hands from her hips and raised it to her mouth. She trailed her tongue along the webbing between two fingers, up and along, to nip at those fingertips.

Giving a low growl, Peggy flipped them over. She didn’t give Angie enough time to let loose a playful little shriek before she was kissing her thoroughly and tugging at her silky pyjamas.

Grandma.

Honestly.

She’d show _her_   ‘Grandma.’

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning Peggy well and truly regretted the night before. Her very bones ached with a deep weariness that came from too few hours of sleep, and she could hardly keep her eyes open on the plane. Not that she would ever admit it aloud. That would be conceding defeat. Unthinkable.

After a few hours of shut eye – which she only allowed herself because she needed to be sharp when she landed – Peggy spent the last leg of the journey pouring over Oleg Penkovsky’s second file.

Peggy had not lied about needing to more closely monitor the Cuba situation. But she may have given misleading and incomplete information.

No doubt Angie thought that Peggy was going to Washington D.C. or someplace similar. That was the wonder of having a private company jet, however. Peggy could go wherever she pleased at the drop of a hat.

“We’ll be landing in Bolivia in an hour and a half, Ma’am,” the lone air hostess said, leaning her elbow on the back of a hand-stitched leather seat, “Can I fix you a cocktail?”

Peggy arched an eyebrow, “Howard has been using this plane without my permission, hasn’t he?”

The air hostess froze; suddenly she seemed very flustered, “I don’t – I mean – Whatever gave you that impression, Ma’am?”

When Peggy just gave her a level stare over the rims of her reading glasses, the air hostess cleared her throat and stood up straighter, “We went to Hawaii.”

“Where else?” Peggy pressed.

The air hostess grimaced, wringing her hands behind her back, then she said in a small voice, “Tahiti.”

Oh, for the love of –

Peggy groaned and rubbed at her eyes, pushing her glasses up as she did so. No wonder it had taken them so bloody long to refuel at the airstrip that morning.

She was going to kill Howard.

“I think I will take that cocktail, actually,” Peggy sighed, turning her attention back to the file and fixing her glasses, “A bloody Mary, please. And go light on the vodka,” she added with a shake of her head, “For Howard in the future as well.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

A few minutes later, Bloody Mary in hand – good Lord _that_ was supposed to be light on the vodka? – Peggy scoured Penkovsky’s report for what felt like the twelfth time.

Ivan Serov had been removed as head of the KGB in 1958, and instead been made head of GRU, Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate. Knowledge of GRU’s innermost workings was scant to none. Not even the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union could enter GRU headquarters without undergoing an invasive security screening.

As such the protection of Oleg Penkovsky’s role as a double agent and personal friend to Serov was of the utmost importance. Not even Yelena had this kind of access.

In fact it was only thanks to Penkovsky and Serov that she and Yelena were no longer trying to kill one another for everything they were worth.

But that was another story.

Suffice it to say 1946 had been a strange year for Peggy.

In his latest report Penkovsky has spelled out Serov’s involvement with the missiles in Cuba. As the head of GRU, he was in charge of the whole operation. Which meant that if he succeeded, there would be great reward. But if he failed, he would be cast aside and stripped of his Party status.

Peggy couldn’t have wished for a better chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Now just to make sure she did so before the United States and Russia blew themselves and everyone else on the planet all to hell.

Flipping to the last page of the report, Peggy’s tipped her head back slightly, eyes never leaving the page as she drank. Penkovsky had included enough allusions to the ever elusive ‘Red Room’ to pique Yelena’s interest and therefore solidify her allegiance for years to come. As far as Peggy was concerned, the Red Room would fall when Leviathan fell. And slaying Leviathan meant killing Ivan Serov.

As it turned out, GRU wasn’t the only Russian agency Serov headed.

Cut off the head. Poison the body. Slay the beast.

It was as simple as that.

Peggy was chewing idly on the drained Bloody Mary’s celery stick garnish by the time they landed in Bolivia. A wind came off the Amazon rainforest. Rain – hot, heavy, humid rain – was a future tang on the air. Peggy stepped out and could immediately feel her hair react to the humidity.

Well, this was going to be a fun two weeks.

Collecting her single canvas bag, she made her way to the car waiting for her. Nothing fancy. The point was the blend in. Be inconspicuous.

Step one: don’t stand out.

It was a mere two hours of driving later that proved she had already failed step one.

The sky was boiling with heavy clouds, and Peggy was trundling along a narrow dirty road – more like a hand-dug track – when that damn _feeling_ returned. The feeling of being watched, of being followed. She could not conclusively say that she was actually being followed, but she had learned years ago to trust her gut when she could trust nothing else.

She checked her mirrors, but there were no cars on her tail. To be perfectly honest – which was a lot coming from her – the last soul she’d seen on the road had been a pair of colourfully clothed Quechua women on foot. And that had been almost forty-five minutes ago.

Peggy pulled over, killed the motor, yanked the hand-brake, and jumped from the vehicle. Rounding to the front of the car, she propped the hood up, then slung her bag over one shoulder and marched to a nearby ridge. From there she hid behind a rocky feature and watched the car through a set of binoculars given to her by Howard. Apparently they had some ridiculous setting which allowed her to see nearly perfectly in the dark. While night-vision wasn’t completely unheard of, Peggy was confident that it certainly wasn’t mass produced at this quality. She hadn’t used it yet, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to at this rate.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

That pair of Quechau women strolled by and peered curiously through the car’s windows. Eventually, though, they moved on without tampering with anything. Nobody else passed. Nobody else even seemed to be occupying the road. At one point a collared peccary snuffled its nose along the road for tubers, then gave up and trotted back into the thick undergrowth. 

Then it started to rain, and still that feeling of being watched remained, lurking at the corners of her vision like a fuzzy childhood memory.

Hefting her bag over her shoulder, Peggy made her way back down to the car. Hair limp and slicked back into a tail at the base of her neck, she slammed the hood down and clambered in to the driver’s seat. Not without checking under the car and in the back seat first, of course. Her jaw was set in a hard damp line as the engine spluttered to life, and she pulled out onto the dirty road once more.

She arrived at the city of Riberalta just as it was starting to get dark. Originally she had arranged to stay at the second seediest motel she could find, but given the circumstances she ignored her prior reservations. Instead she went to a motel directly across the street. There she could keep a visual on where she was supposed to be staying. She paid in cash for a room on the ground floor. If she was going to have to crash through any windows, then she would rather do it without breaking her legs.

The man who owned the building smiled when he handed her the key to her room, revealing two missing teeth. She flashed a tight smile in return, and made her way down the hall. Outside in the back alley a three-legged dog looted around for scraps of food in the trash. The walls here were thick with a damp must, doubtlessly hiding layers of mould and moss .

No matter. She had stayed in far worse places. Besides, it was only temporary. In the morning she would set out for the hills to find Serov’s hideaway.

Peggy checked the handle before touching it. Still grimy. No recent finger-marks. Carefully she made her way inside, drawing the Walther PPK from the holster under her blazer as she did so. The room was dim and dusty and completely empty. An ensuite bathroom without a door held only a broken toilet and a wash station that had seen better days.

Letting out a long breath she had been holding since she had arrived, Peggy dropped her bag on the bed. At least nothing crawled out from under the sheets.

There was a distinctive click behind her. She knew that sound – a gun being cocked.

Before she could whirl around, however, hand still gripping the handle of her pistol, a female voice said calmly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Damn.

Damn it all to hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, Peggy did not listen.

Listening to her assassin would be incredibly foolish. And Peggy was far from that. Or so she thought.

Behind her there was no creak of floorboards as her assailant moved closer, but Peggy could feel the approach all the same. She waited until the attacker was just behind her before making her move.

Peggy whirled and battled the pistol out of the way with one hand, using her other to raise her Walther PPK and fire. Her attacker, a woman – no, a _girl,_ no more than a day over twenty, or Peggy would eat crow – spun low and swept Peggy’s feet out from under her as though she’d been expecting the move.

Alright, so perhaps Peggy would eat crow regardless.

This was definitely the same assailant from two nights ago in the Brooklyn alleyway. Though at the time Peggy had not gotten a good look at her face, there could be no doubt. She moved the same way. Nothing at all like how Peggy fought, which was all heavy shoulder and sharp elbow. More like Yelena. Ruthlessness bundled up inside that slender body like a wild animal trained to dance at the circus.

Where once Peggy would have been a rolling recovery and leapt to her feet for another swing, now she flopped to the ground like a cold limp fish. Her body plain stubbornly refused to do what it was told.

She _knew_ she should have gone to sleep earlier the night before.

Shoulder aching from the fall, Peggy aimed a kick at the woman’s knees, but she dodged back, nimble and quick as a serpent coiling upon itself. Peggy scrambled to her feet, raising her fists and sliding easily into a fighting stance. She may not have been in peak condition, but she wouldn’t go down without making it hurt for the other person either.

Rather than launch herself forward anew, though, the girl cocked her head. A ruffled red fringe scooped across her brow, shading her eyes. She grinned, but those eyes remained keen and wintry, “You alright there, Grandma?”

Of all the humiliating -!

She wasn’t _that_ old!

With a snarl fixed on her face, Peggy’s muscles tightened in preparation for an attack forward, driving her foot down to burst forward in a flurry of action. She froze when the girl raised both hands, palms up.

“How about we play a little game?” the girl circled slowly to the other side of the bed, and Peggy kept pace so that they remained at an even distance, wary, “If you win, I’ll tell you who sent me.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed, “What’s the game?”

The girl’s grin widened to an honest to God smirk, and Peggy wanted to knock her teeth in, “Survival. Meet me at the bar downstairs in five minutes.”

And then the girl roundhouse kicked the shuttered window behind her open, and backflipped out into the dusk.

Was that really necessary? Whatever happened to honest brawls and civilised ways of exiting windows? Or doors, even? Whatever happened to using doors?

Youths these days. Honestly.

At that point the entirety of the motel’s staff came crashing through said door, piling into Peggy’s cramped room with weapons clutched in their hands and murder in their eyes. They surrounded her. With a cursory glance around, Peggy counted eleven of them. Most were armed with makeshift clubs. Two had knives. And one – the owner missing his two teeth – had a rusty old machete that gleamed in the low light.

Even the three-legged dog from the trash out back had its teeth bared, growling at her from where it stood near the bathroom.

She was not looking forward to that. She hated killing dogs. Avoided it all costs, if she absolutely had to fight one. Usually she preferred to tranquilise them from afar before they become a problem in the first place. It looked like that wouldn’t be an option this time.

Exactly four minutes and fifty two seconds later Peggy limped into the downstairs bar, armed with her Walther PPK and the girl’s abandoned Makarov.

All her wounds were superficial at best. Bruises along her back and arms. A cut across her forearm that would heal in a few days. The worst was a narrow gash splitting one side of her upper lip. That one would definitely leave a scar.

She licked at her lip, tonguing it experimentally. Sharp acidic pain lanced from it and she gave an involuntary wince. She'd be tasting blood with every meal for days.

At least she had been able to get away without killing the dog. She had managed to knock it out cold with its own master's chair-leg club. On the other hand the people hadn't fared as well. Most of them were dead. One or two she'd left groaning in pools of their friends' blood. 

The girl was already waiting calmly for her at the bar. She sat on a stool, legs crossed at the knee, and cut a lime into wedges. Gesturing with the knife to the barstool next to her, she poured two shots of tequila, "Not bad. For a fossil."

Biting back a growl, Peggy made her way over. When she sat heavily down on the stool, she let loose a hiss and stood immediately. Brushing a piece of glass away from the seat that had pinched into her thigh, she sat back down again.

The girl slid a shot of tequila over along with a slice of lime and a dish full of salt.

Peggy just glared.

Shrugging, the girl downed her own shot then bit down on the lime.

"Are you quite finished with the theatrics?" Peggy snapped, "Start talking or we can resume what we started back in Brooklyn."

Grinning a green lime-wedge smile, the girl put down the empty shot glass, “You’re a very popular woman in certain circles, Margaret Carter. Or unpopular. Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

“Did you track me all the way to Bolivia just to tell me things I already know?” Peggy kept the muzzle of her pistol trained on the girl at all times. The Makarov she held loosely in her other hand, feeling a tingle running down her arm from a particularly nasty bruise high on her shoulder.

The girl didn’t seem to mind in the slightest that she was being held up at gunpoint, “Leviathan sent me.”

“Who in Leviathan?”

Rather than answer, the girl tossed the hair from eyes. She licked one finger then pressed it down into the dish of salt, “That’s not how this game works.”

Eyes hard, Peggy said, “Quid pro quo, then. Yes or no questions only.”

With anyone else Peggy would have cocked her gun and tried intimidation – she was told she was rather good at it after all. Here, with this girl, however, she was sure she would only be laughed at for her troubles.

And she’d had enough teasing about her age for one week, thank you very much. There was no point asking for more.

Licking the salt from her finger, the girl hummed in agreement.

“Good,” Peggy leaned back, but kept the gun trained on her just in case, “I’ll go first. Did Ivan Serov send you?”

“Yes.” the girl answered without hesitation. She pulled Peggy’s lime wedge over and ate that too, expression never changing as she bit into the sharp citrus, “Is Yelena Belova with you?”

“No.” Peggy could feel the muscles in her back complaining, begging for a hot bath, but she ignored the pain, “Is Ivan Serov in the mountains to the south?”

“Yes.” The girl leaned her elbow on the bar, her eyes a green as vibrant as the lime rind she tossed aside, “If I asked for amnesty, would you give it to me as you’ve done with Yelena Belova?”

In spite of herself Peggy’s eyebrows rose, “You want amnesty?”

Outside the sky grew dark, while inside the bar was lit only with a few candles, shadows clustering thick and fast.

The girl shrugged, “I might. In the future.”

Peggy turned the question over in her head before answering, “Yes. I would.”

It would depend on what the girl could bring to the negotiating table, but overall Peggy was not lying. Lying in this situation would gain her nothing.

If the girl seemed pleased or relieved she did not show it. Instead she just watched Peggy, her gaze as sharp and discerning as ever. Peggy felt she could sniff out a lie a mile away like a bloodhound. “But…?” she asked, clearly digging for more information.

This time it was Peggy’s turn to smile, “That’s not how this works. When and if you come to me for amnesty in the future, then – and only then – we will discuss terms. As for now, it’s my turn: Will the Russian government continue to fund Leviathan if Serov fails with this stunt in Cuba?”

The girl played with the flame of a nearby candle, dipping the tip of her finger into the hot wax, “What stunt in Cuba?”

Peggy did cock her pistol then, the metallic click loud amidst all the silence and dusty glass bottles of liquor jammed together on the shelves, “You’re not as good of a liar as you might like to think.”

The girl dragged one nail down the soft melting wax of the candle, lowering her hand to drum her fingers on the scratched up wooden countertop. If anything she seemed bored. Her nails were chewed down to the quick. Some of the edges contained a fine crust of old blood, “It’s not my place to have an opinion on government policy.”

“I didn’t ask you about your opinion of government policy. I asked about your knowledge of government policy.”

Night was well and truly fallen now. The flutter of leathery wings rustled and chirped like paper as a colony of bats flew over the building. A black spider made its silvery web in an open window.

The drumming continued, an even tempo, yet the girl’s eyes remained as fixed and steely and unwavering as ever, “To my knowledge: No.”

So that was that. Three birds with one stone. Things were finally starting to look up. Even if they did involve going toe-to-toe with a child assassin.

It was only then that Peggy realised something was sincerely, unquestionably, remarkably amiss.

“Why are you playing this game with me?” she asked. Only the flash of triumph could make her feel so suspicious, “You don’t actually want amnesty. So why?”

And just then the drumming of those fingers stopped, “I must admit. I’m impressed.” The girl tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear, “Most people don’t last this long.”

Peggy began to feel it then. The creep of blackness at the corners of her vision more than just the setting sun. The tendons in her hand stood out against her skin. She was about to pull the trigger, but the girl reached over – too fast for a normal person, faster even than Yelena – and took the gun with a simple twist of her wrist. Like plucking a sticky ice cream cone from a child’s fingers.

“I like you,” the girl said, placing the Walther PPK on the countertop next to the dripping candle, “Your tenacity. Your honesty. It’s refreshing.”

But how -? Peggy’s mind raced. How had she done it? Peggy had refused the blatant offer of food and drink. They hadn’t so much as grazed each other, let alone –

The glass on the barstool. Not glass at all. A needle? Just a momentary prick in Peggy’s thigh, but coated with enough toxin to send her spiralling out of control. Just enough. And with time she would inevitably –

The Makarov slipped from Peggy’s other hand and clattered to the floor, useless. Lurching forward, Peggy grabbed a fistful of the girl’s shirt and yanked her forward, “Why drug me? If you’re just going to kill me, then why -?”

She shook her head and blinked hard against the shadows creeping in, the cold seeping into her bones like a winter chill.

The girl laughed, a low soft kind of laugh in the back of her throat, almost incredulous, “Whatever gave you the idea that I was sent to kill you?”

Peggy was fading fast now. Her heartrate a roar like distant waves crashing against white cliffs.

And then nothing but black.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke, the swell of the ocean still clamoured in her ears. Head spinning, Peggy’s chin nodded against her chest. As the minutes dragged, slow and grainy as sand, Peggy managed to force her eyes open.

Her hands and feet were bound with stiff rope. She was propped up against a wall, slumped on the blue-painted floor. The roar of the ocean was more than just the illusion of drugs, if the rough salty bite in the air was any indication.

The floor rocked, slow and steady. Her suspicions that she was on a boat were confirmed when the far door opened, admitting a wave of bright blinding light. Peggy winced, fighting the stab of pain behind her eyes.

The girl stood in the doorway wearing dark sunglasses, and a jaunty sailor’s cap was tipped back on her head.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” The girl peered over the top of her sunglasses. She was backlit by the open door, sunlight searing the edges of her red hair to a burnished gold, “I do hope you like Cuba. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Then God looked down and said "Let Peggy Carter have a sexy lipscar." And it was good. Amen.


	5. Chapter 5

Peggy didn’t answer her emergency radio.

Peggy _always_ answered her emergency radio.

It had been two weeks, and Peggy had not returned from her ‘business’ with this whole Cuba crisis. When Peggy said she was going to be back in two weeks, then she was back in two weeks. No exceptions.

The first day after the two weeks was up, Angie began to worry. The second day, she began to worry in earnest.

God knew Peggy was often late for some things. Ok, maybe most things. Like that time she stood up Angie on their anniversary brunch at Bordeaux back in ’57. Angie had sullenly eaten her eggs in purgatory without Peggy, and when Peggy finally showed up it was with tales of some catastrophe averted or another. She always had good excuses.

And don’t even get Angie started on the number of times Peggy had arrived late to Sunday Dinner with her family. What a way to get on her Ma’s bad side right off the bat. If there was one thing her Ma hated more than taking the Lord’s name in vain, it was tardiness.

Ok, that was a lie. Her Ma definitely hated taking the Lord’s name in vain more.

God, didn’t Angie know it.

But those were all small things. Overall Angie was willing to let them slide. Because – well – Peggy’s excuses were always good and always true. She could always trust Peggy to be tardy yet completely honest.

Plus she loved the great lummox. Lord help her.

This, however, was different.

Where missions were concerned Peggy was as punctual as a metronome. On that Angie could always depend.

Which is why the morning of the second day Angie burst into Howard’s lab, calling his name.

Howard himself was standing before a cabinet in the far corner. He started, fumbling with a flask and almost dropping it. Whirling around, he hid the flask behind his back, “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!”

Angie gave him a disapproving look. The year before Peggy had issued a strict no alcohol policy on the premises. She would have extended it to all working hours regardless of where the employees were at the time, but there had been enough grumblings as everyone watched their precious decanters and bottles being carted away.

Any other day Angie would have berated him for drinking on site and in the lab no less – where there are power tools and volatile materials, Howard! – but today Angie brushed it off, “Have you heard from Peggy?”

Squinting at her to gauge her reaction, Howard cautiously brought the flask back around, “No. I thought she’d be back by now?”

Angie shook her head, “No word from her. I rang our DC office, but they haven’t seen her in almost three months.”

“Huh,” Howard took a swig from the flask, “Have you tried asking our pilots if they took her anywhere special?”

“They said she took the jet down to Bolivia, but they left when they received a message from her telling them to go.”

No Howard began to look genuinely concerned, his brow furrowing, “Was it a spoken message? Or a written one?”

Angie’s mouth went dry, “Written. But it had all the right codes. Do you think -?”

Shrugging and taking one last draught before screwing the cap on the flask shut, he said, “Could be someone has her.”

Angie watched him slip the hand-tooled leather-bound flask into his inner breast pocket, “It’s nine thirty in the morning, Howard.”

“Your point being?” He changed the topic – never one to dwell on his own personal problems, “Look, I may know someone who can tell us if Peggy’s in any sort of trouble. But I can tell you right now: you’re not going to like it.”

Angie snorted and crossed her arms. Short of Paul Harris, the cad from Farnborough, she very much doubted she’d care where the information came from, “Oh, come on. How bad could it be?”

He eyed her warily from across the lab, “That depends. When was the last time you saw Yelena Belova?”

Alright, so maybe Howard had a point.

Angie didn’t like this plan at all. Not one bit.

“You know damn well when I last saw her,” Angie was surprised at how gravelly her own voice sounded.

Ten years. Ten years and Ange still woke up some nights to scratch an itch in a leg that wasn’t there. Only cold unfeeling metal.

“I know,” Howard crossed the room to put his hands on her shoulders, “You still want to do this?”

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Angie nodded, “Yeah. Let’s go.”

It was times like these that made Angie really miss the war.

Boy, if her Ma heard her say that, she’d get switched. Never mind that Angie was going on 40 now. To her parents, the War was the worst thing that ever happened to their family. The War took Frankie. But for Angie the War was nostalgia personified. Happier times. Times when all she had to worry about was Paul Harris snooping on her planes, and whether she could pull Peggy into a broom closet in the Command building for a quickie.

Much happier times.

“You’re going to have to change,” Howard pointed down at her clothes.

She looked down at the slacks and fresh, buttoned-down shirt. She wore the sleeves down around her wrists at all times unless she was working and had to roll them up to her elbows. She didn’t like people seeing the scars. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

He made a face, “It’s not exactly a casual place we’re going to.”

“Oh, what is it? Huh?” Angie planted both hands on her hips, “A snooty high-class brothel?”

She meant it as a joke, but Howard coughed and looked away.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

Angie groaned.

Peggy better damn well be grateful for her butt being saved when this was all over.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later – enough time for Howard to arrange the meeting, and for Angie rush back to the apartment and change into a dress – Howard was leading Angie into an underground establishment. She had expected someplace seedy and dilapidated. Someplace that really reflected Yelena’s personality, you know? Instead what she got was an elegant illegal casino that acted as Yelena’s personal den of iniquity and vice. Her own little kingdom of sex and gambling and illicit drugs.

So, the exact opposite of where Angie wanted to be on a Tuesday afternoon. Or any other day, really.

The bouncer – a hulking Slavic man with more muscle than God – took one look at Howard and nodded them both inside. At first Angie had objected to being the candy on Howard’s arm, but now she clung to him like a bad rash.

When he patted her gloved hand, though, she shot him an ugly look and resisted the urge to jam her metal heel on his toes.

It would serve him right. Keeping Yelena Belova a secret from her all these years, when he knew she was right here in New York City. The fact that Peggy probably also knew and didn’t tell her didn’t bode well either. For Peggy, that was.

Oh, there would be words. Many words. Most of which Angie couldn’t repeat in front of her Ma for fear of having her ears boxed.

Through the many tailored waistcoats and finely draped dresses, Angie saw her. Yelena Belova flourished in a field of smoke, tapping her cigarette into a crystal ashtray by her elbow. Cigarette butts staggered in the tray like a razed city. She wore a dress that shimmered darkly in the low, warm, flickering lights, as though the fabric had been stitched together with black shards of glass.

As they approached, Yelena lifted her head like a hound scenting the air. A briary smile bloomed and encroached when she turned and saw them, “Angie! How lovely!” She twisted in her seat so that the slit in her dress revealed a length of leg. Her eyes raked over Angie like an iron over coals, “You don’t look a day over thirty!”

It was warm in the establishment, too warm even, yet Angie shivered, “Dottie.” Her greeting was curt, and she used Yelena’s alias as per Howard’s instructions.

“Oh, please!” Yelena gestured to the seat directly next to her, “Call me _Lenochka.”_

_Anzhelochka._

The name whispered across ten years, and Angie felt her stomach turn.

Angie would sooner eat that entire tray of cigarette butts than call her _Lenochka._

“Hello there, Howie,” Yelena turned her cutting smile to Howard, who shifted under her unblinking stare, “Are you back for another – ah – _good time_ with one of my girls?”

Angie gave him a repulsed look.

“I never laid a finger on any of her girls!” he insisted in a low tone to her, “C’mon, Angie! You know me! Since when have I ever had to pay for that?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed his arm away.

“Unless _you’re_ here for a good tumble?” Yelena aimed that question at Angie, “Is Peggy not treating you right at home?”

It took all of Angie’s willpower to school her features, “Thanks but no thanks. And my personal life is none of your damn business.”

“Well, if not pleasure, then what is it that brings you here?” Yelena nudged the leg of the seat next to her with her foot and looked pointedly at Angie.

Reluctant, Angie sat, rearranging the skirt of her long dress as she did so. Even in a place like this, Angie wasn’t inclined to just have her leg hanging out in the open in front of everyone. The staring got old real fast, “Peggy went off on a mission and hasn’t returned. Last we heard she was in Bolivia. We want to know if you can help us find her.”

Yelena exhaled smoke through her nose so that her eyes were veiled, “I want to see it.”

Angie frowned, “See what?”

In answer Yelena’s eyes travelled down to Angie’s leg.

“Yelena, that’s not what we –” Howard began, but she cut him off.

“ _You_ will refer to me as Dottie,” she never took her gaze from Angie, voice dangerous and low.

“Right. Ok, then,” Howard stepped back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll go get us some drinks.”

For a few still moments in Howard’s absence, Angie and Yelena just looked at one another. Yelena’s hair shone in the firelight like a candle. She looked exactly the same as she did all those years ago, as though not a day had passed, as though she’d been preserved in resin. Angie had never needed to use the term ‘raised hackles’ before, but she certainly felt it was an apt description under the present circumstances.

Without saying a word Angie pulled her dress up, revealing the leg she had painstakingly poured hours and hours into developing. She was constantly upgrading it, playing with programming and electrical impulses so that it moved more naturally, had more functions. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between it and the other leg without seeing them revealed.

Yelena reached out and ran her fingers along the knee, “Incredible,” she breathed.

She moved her hand up, pushing Angie’s dress along her wrist until her fingertips ghosted over the pink skin of Angie’s thigh where it ridged against the articulated metal plates.

Almost reflexively Angie jerked back, and looked around to see if anyone had noticed Yelena’s hand literally up her skirt. Nobody seemed to be paying them any mind, however. Two tables over a portly gentleman with a cigar stuck between his teeth won a round of Russian roulette. The bystanders all cheered and clapped him on the back.

Yelena settled back in her chair, crossing her legs as she did so in order to ‘accidentally’ bump Angie’s calf with her toe, “Why don’t we ever do anything fun together anymore?”

“We’ve never had fun together.”

Yelena pouted and flicked her cigarette, and Angie fought back a flinch, “We had fun in Russia!”

“Those were the worst days of my life,” Angie retorted, kicking Yelena’s foot away as it started to stroke down her ankle.

“I kept you alive, didn’t I?”

“You watched me be tortured for a week. And then you made me think I was eating my own leg.”

Shrugging, Yelena brought the cigarette back to her lips, painted a striking fiery red, “So I got a little carried away.”

 _“A little carried away?”_ Angie echoed, furious. Her hands balled into fists and her leg gave a series of muted clicks, the metal plates ruffling, expanding and contracting, like feathers or real live muscle.

Luckily Howard returned just then, balancing three martini glasses in his hands. Oblivious, he set them down between Angie and Yelena, taking one for himself and sipping, “Here we are, ladies!”

They both ignored him and the drinks he brought.

“You’re welcome,” he grumbled.

Yelena stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, “Any idiot could tell you where she is. If there’s one thing Peggy fails at, it’s discretion. She leaves a swath a mile wide in her wake, that girl.” Yelena’s gaze flicked to Howard, “Even those idiots back in ’46 eventually knew it was her clearing your name all along. Isn’t that right, Howie?”

Howard cleared his throat and drained his drink, “I’m in need of a refill,” he said weakly, tapping the glass as he darted off.

He sloped away to the bar, again leaving Angie and Yelena all alone in the crowded casino.

“Now that he’s taken care of,” Yelena leaned in closer, “we can continue to speak in earnest.”

“I thought that sort of thing was beyond your capabilities,” Angie retorted dryly.

Yelena propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her palm, observing Angie over her curled fingers, “I’ll help you find Peggy. On one condition.”

Uh oh.

Angie was generally displeased with this whole situation already. Now it just sounded like it was going to get a whole lot worse.

“Of course you have conditions,” Angie sighed and rubbed her temple, “What do you want?”

“I want to come with you.”

Angie snorted, a soft graceless huff of air through her nostrils, “Not a chance.”

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her shoulders, pursing her lips into a small, disinterested moue. Angie was entirely unimpressed with the exaggerated expression of wounded _amour propre,_ “Then you can go handle Ivan Serov all by yourself.”

All the blood drained from Angie’s face.

The look Yelena gave her was sly, “You mean you didn’t know Serov was involved? Does Peggy tell you anything these days?”

Honestly Angie was grateful Peggy had kept that piece of information a secret.

Ten years, and the mere mention of Ivan Serov scared the piss out of her.

“If you’re going to be sick, do make sure you don’t get anything on my shoes,” Yelena sneered at the expression on Angie’s face.

“Shut up,” Angie gasped, and all the air seemed to whoosh from her lungs, “Just – stop talking.”

She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. She really was starting to feel sick. The fact that Yelena sat there watching her like a hyena eyeing a meaty bone certainly didn’t help.

The thought of seeing Ivan Serov again was amplified only by the idea of Yelena joining her. Angie couldn’t decide whether this was just how Yelena got her rocks off, or if this was her twisted way of showing mercy.

To be honest, Angie didn’t actually want to know the answer to that.

Angie lowered her hand to where the other sat in her lap, twisting them together there, “Fine. You can join us.”

Yelena smiled broadly, “Excellent! Oh, it’ll be just like old times!” She leaned forward in her seat and grasped Angie’s knee warmly. Not that Angie could feel it – she’d gone for the prosthetic leg. But it felt hot all the same, brightness searing along her thighs, “Now, let’s get on to more important matters. How are you feeling?”

Angie scowled down at Yelena’s hand, at the polished way her manicured nails gleamed in the smoke-hazed amber light like claws, “I’m not going to be sick, if that’s what you mean.”

Yelena laughed as though Angie had told a funny joke, and her thumb stroked over Angie’s knee, “No, silly! I meant – have you noticed anything _strange?”_

“I work for Howard Stark. I live with the Director of a spy and anti-terrorist organisation. And now I’m having drinks with you.” Angie removed Yelena’s hand and flung it away, “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“Nothing with you personally? Bodily?”

Angie really didn’t like the way Yelena was looking at her, “No. Everything is fine.”

“Better than fine, I’d say,” Yelena cocked her head, “Isn’t it convenient? Tell me, when was the last time you got a cold or the flu?”

“I –” Angie shook her head. If she kept up this frown, it’d be permanently etched into her face, “I don’t know? Why does that even matter?”

Yelena waved her away, clearly miffed, “Oh, never mind. I’ll meet you tomorrow, and we’ll head off on an adventure after our dear Peggy.”

She reached out to take Angie’s hand by way of saying goodbye, but as she did so her elbow bumped the nearby ashtray, knocking it towards the ground.

Without thinking Angie’s hand darted out, and she plucked the ashtray from the air, dropping it back onto the table in one liquid motion.

Yelena’s whole face brightened as though she sat in front of a roaring brick fireplace. She smiled, that broad signature briary smile, and said, “Oops! How clumsy of me!”

Angie stood so abruptly her knee knocked the table, tipping flickers of gin from the two full martini glasses still perched there. From his place by the bar Howard noticed the sudden movement, and quickly made his way over. He offered his arm, and once again Angie appreciated the gesture where once she would have found it condescending.

Not that the act of offering an arm was condescending. Just from Howard. And not that he wasn’t a good guy, mind you. He just tended to be unbearably smarmy most of the time.

Taking his arm, Angie nodded to him when he gave her a questioning, concerning look.

“Lovely to see you again, Dottie,” he said to their hostess, turning to guide Angie away.

Yelena watched them leave with hooded eyes, lighting up another cigarette. A flame leapt to life between her finger and palm like a witch summoning it from air, and smoke wheeled in sharp curls from her red-painted mouth. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Angie had personally seen to the design and production of SHIELD’s private jet. She’d based the engines off the Pratt and Whitney J75 axial-flow turbojet engines. With just a few modifications from yours truly. More specifically she’d changed it to a non-afterburning turbofan. This beast was capable of air-refuelling, extending its range from around 8,000 kilometres to over 15,000. It was Angie’s pride and joy. Nothing in any military in the world could touch this bad boy.

So of course the very first thing Howard had done was install a bar.

“It’s demeaning,” Angie grumbled, arms crossed from where she sat in a hand-stitched creamy leather seat. Beside her was a window that could tint at the press of a button to block unwanted sunlight or prying eyes.

They’d ruined it. Absolutely ruined it.

What was wrong with the interior she’d picked for it? And more importantly – was that a gold embossed SHIELD logo over the door to the cockpit?

Oh, come on! Was that gaudy piece of junk really necessary?

“It’s classy,” Howard countered, lounging in his own seat directly across from her, his pale suit making him blend into the leather like one enormous luxury dead cow, “The President of the United States has meetings in here with Peg sometimes. We need to keep up appearances.”

Angie picked at a loose stitch on her armrest, “Yeah, well, from what I heard he’s no man of great taste neither.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Marilyn was certainly a firecracker.”

Angie kicked him in the shin. With her metal toe for good measure. Howard gave a high-pitched yelp and tucked his legs up beneath him, glaring at her.

“What the hell was that for?” he groused, rubbing at his shin.

“She died this year, Howard! Have some respect!”

“I meant it as a compliment!”

“Uh huh. Sure you did.”

A series of rapid clicks made them pause and look over. In the other booth-like set of seats Yelena sat with her bag of many weapons all laid out across the mahogany table on a tarp. For the entire duration of the flight she had remained eerily quiet, meticulously disassembling and cleaning every last weapon she owned. It turned out she had quite a lot of them. The woman was like a walking armoury – Angie was amazed she didn’t clank with every step.

Just then she had reassembled her Walther PPK with deadly precision and speed, and was now aiming down the sights with a critical eye.

Angie really didn’t like how Yelena’s favoured firearm was also Peggy’s favoured firearm. It just didn’t sit well with her. Couldn’t she get her own gun?

Howard and Angie exchanged nervous looks.

“I think I preferred it when she was hitting on you,” he whispered loudly.

He’d started talking about Yelena as if she wasn’t there back over Venezuela, when he realised she wasn’t reacting to anything they were saying.

“Speak for yourself,” Angie shot back.

Yelena continued to pay them no attention. Instead, satisfied with the Walther PPK, she moved on to her Mossberg 500 combat shotgun. It had a mean looking pistol grip that Angie personally thought was overkill, but whatever. It wasn’t _her_ gun.

Angie had precisely two guns, both 9mm pistols. Identical SIG P210s. One concealed at her hip, the other hidden in a chamber of her leg along with an assortment of tools that Angie would have felt naked leaving the house without. Peggy had made her pick a gun and stick with it, saying something about getting familiar with just a few weapons – Jack of all trades, master of none. Yadda yadda. Anyway, Angie had been forced to endure hours of training with the damn thing until she could blow a hole the size of a fist in a paper target at twenty-five yards.

She had moaned about it at the time, but secretly she was glad to finally be reasonably proficient with a weapon. After that Russia fiasco back in ’52, she wanted to be able to shoot straight. She accepted that she would never be as good a shot as, say, Peggy or Yelena, but at least she could give an opponent pause.

Besides, shooting was kind of fun.

“Your drinks,” the air hostess balanced a tray and handed Angie a glass.

This was awful. No self-respecting aircraft had air hostesses. Certainly not air hostesses with cute little red caps and matching red lapels on their fetching grey suits, and red fingernails to boot.

God, her shoes were cute too. Unbelievable. 

Angie squinted as she took her drink, “Did Howard say you had to wear that uniform in order to work here?”

The air hostess looked over at Howard, who was miming zipping his lips shut, but disguised it as stroking his moustache contemplatively when Angie turned her head.

Angie leaned in to the air hostess and said in a low tone, “You _do_ know you have access to an excellent HR team back in New York, right? In case you ever feel in any way _uncomfortable_ in your work environment?”

“Hey!” Howard interjected, “I’m right here, you know!”

Angie ignored him.

“Thank you, I know,” the air hostess assured her, handing Howard his Old Fashioned.

Howard took a sip of his drink and made a face. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his flask and dumped alcohol into his glass. At least he would have if Angie hadn’t snatched the flask from him and refused to give it back.

“C’mon, Angie! That flask belonged to my father! At least give it back for safe-keeping.”

Whether that was true or not, Angie didn’t know. Nor did she particularly care to be honest.

She handed the flask instead to the air hostess, “Could you please dump this?”

“Of course,” the air hostess took the flask and upended it into a sink by the bar. Then she returned and handed it back to Howard.

He took it, but he still looked like he’d bitten into a particularly sour apple.

The remainder of the flight passed without much incident. During their final descent Yelena packed up all of her gear into her rucksack, strapping some weapons to various concealed areas of her body as well. Only when they actually landed did she look up and give Angie a bright smile, “You ready?”

With a groan Angie unbuckled herself and stood, fetching her own bag from an overhead compartment. She followed Yelena to the stairwell leading down to the unsealed taxiway, when she looked over her shoulder at Howard, “What’s taking you so long?”

Howard nursed his third Old Fashioned in an hour, still lounging in his seat, the buckle slung low across his waist, “I’m not joining you.”

“Hold up – you’re _not_ coming?” Angie asked, horrified. She couldn’t think of anything worse than tracking down Ivan Serov with Yelena Belova, alone.

Howard gave an apologetic roll of his shoulders, and at least he had the decency to actually look sorry, “Someone has to hold down the fort back home. And seeing as my handsome mug is the only one the government recognises back there now that Peggy is out of the picture – ” He trailed off.

“Why did you even come all the way down here, then?” Angie asked, incredulous.

“For the excellent cocktails of course. Which, by the way,” he rounded on the air hostess, who was cleaning up the bar, “were a little stingy on the bourbon this time around. And by _a little_ I mean _a lot_.”

In response the air hostess just refolded her towel to a clean side and continued buffing the counter, “Peggy’s orders.”

Howard grumbled sullenly, but didn’t argue with that.

“Alright, well,” Angie shifted the bag hefted on one shoulder, and gave him an imploring look, “Have a nice trip back, I guess.”

At that, Howard put his glass down, unbuckled himself, and rushed over to her. He put his hands on Angie’s shoulders and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, “Make sure you come back in one piece, alright?”

He made to draw back, but Angie drew him in for a fierce hug before letting him go, “Don’t you dare touch my side of the lab while I’m gone.”

She tried covering up her nerves with a stern glower, but Howard only smiled, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

God, all this mushy nonsense was going to give her a tooth cavity. So Angie punched his shoulder before turning to descend the stairs. The hatch shut behind her as soon as she was on the ground, and the stairs were wheeled away by four men sweating through their high-visibility vests.

Yelena was waiting for her not far off, tossing her gear into the back of a rust-heap of a car. When she opened up the driver’s door and made to sit, Angie stomped over, “No way! Get! _Shoo!_ I’m driving!”

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” Yelena huffed.

“Then it’s a good thing I have a handy dandy navigator with me,” Angie stuffed her own bag into the backseat, then marched around the car to stand in front of Yelena and glare.

It was the most intimidating stance she knew, one she’d learned from her Ma: head tilted slightly back, hands on hips, nostrils flared. But Yelena just smirked and stepped closer. She towered over Angie, and not for the first time Angie silently cursed her Dad for being so short. Why couldn’t Ma have picked a strapping Florentine boy instead of her weedy, Brindisian, tender-hearted father?

Yelena lifted her hand, and Angie froze. But she only reached out and lightly touched a fingertip to Angie’s cheek, “An eyelash,” she said, holding it up for Angie to see.

Scowling, Angie swatted her hand away.

Yelena arched an eyebrow, then brushed by her – making sure their shoulders shared lingering contact – and rounded the car to the passenger side. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Angie slammed the door shut.

“Keys,” she ordered, holding out her hand towards Yelena, who handed them over, “Where are we headed?” She asked as she started the car.

“My sources say Peggy was on her way to Riberalta, but she would have only stayed the night before heading after Serov in the mountains.”

As Yelena spoke, Angie punched the car into gear and guided it slowly down the only road leading from the airstrip, “So we retrace her steps to Riberalta?”

Yelena shook her head, “No. We go directly to the mountains. I have a place there where we can stay the night.”

Angie bounced in her seat from all the pot holes in the road, “What? Like a cabin?”

“More like a shack.”

Oh, great. She would literally be ‘shacking up’ with Yelena Belova.

Gritting her teeth, Angie snapped, “Who the hell has a shack in the middle of the Bolivian rainforest?”

“Not Peggy,” Yelena pointed out, then added with a theatrical, sarcastic gasp, “And, oh! She’s missing!”

Angie just rolled her eyes and drove. To her surprise the car didn’t break down once, though she did insist on stopping and having a close inspection of the engine when it started to rattle. Turned out to be just a loose component tapping against the chassis. Nothing she could fix without a proper garage. Luckily nothing that would cause major damage either.

They drove until rain started to smear the roads to mud, and the sun began to set. Then Yelena insisted they finished the last stretch on foot. By the time they arrived at their destination, Angie was soaked through and peppered with more bug bites than she cared to mention.

Yelena hadn’t lied. It really was a shack too. Angie groaned when she finally saw it hidden among the low-slung trees. The thing was probably crawling with many-legged wildlife, and she was smeared all along one side with mud from when she’d slipped and fallen. It didn’t help that the only reason why she’d slipped in the first place was thanks to a certain _someone_ letting go of a branch that then promptly smacked Angie in the face.

As soon as they entered, Yelena scanned the area for signs of tampering before pulling the lantern from her bag and lighting up the small single room. There were no beds, only two thin mats, and – oh, god, something definitely crawled in that corner. Angie scooted away from the walls, arms wrapped around her midriff.

Dropping the bag from her shoulder, Angie retrieved the tiny, portable, self-fuelling heater – courtesy of Howard – and set it up in the centre of the room, where it burned bright orange. The two of them stripped out of their wet clothes, and Angie would’ve been reminded of another time back in ’44 when she did something similar on a cramped submarine. Except this time it was Yelena instead of Peggy, and Yelena didn’t bother turning around or averting her gaze. There was no point in Angie asking her to; she knew she would only be mocked. So instead she held Yelena’s unabashed stare, and did her best to ignore that grin.

Angie couldn’t think of a time she had ever pulled on clothes so fast in her life. Well, maybe that one day back in ’56, when poor Daniel had walked in on them atop Peggy’s desk. More accurately Angie had been sitting on the desk, and Peggy had been kneeling on the floor. They’d scrambled for their clothing lightning-quick after that.

Peggy liked to point to Daniel as an example of how to respectfully enter her office, but Angie knew the reason why he did so, and it had very little to do with politeness.

On the other hand Yelena got dressed with exaggerated slowness, taking her dear sweet time to zip up that dark jumpsuit of hers. Once dressed, however, Angie busied herself with arranging their wet clothes out in front of the heater, and readying herself for a very poor night of sleep.

Angie tried not to think about all the creepy-crawlies as she lowered herself gingerly onto the mat, spread only with a threadbare sheet. Not that she needed it for warmth or anything – this place was a humidity nightmare. On top of it all her body ached less than she thought it would’ve. Exercise wasn’t really her forte.

Ok, so maybe that was an understatement.

Angela Martinelli did not exercise unless the situation drastically called for it. Like being chased by Nazi’s in Italy. Or tracking down the bull-headed love of her life through a Soviet infested rainforest.

Normally Angie would’ve have given it any thought, but ever since Yelena asked the other night…

Well, it became increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Why are you so hell bent on tracking down key members of the Party, anyway?” Angie asked.

Yelena went very still for a moment, then laid back on the mat, spine stiff, “Peggy didn’t tell you?”

“I never asked.”

Which was true. Had she asked, she had no doubt Peggy would’ve answered honestly.

Whereas before Yelena had been so keen on unnerving Angie through prolonged heated stares, now she avoided Angie’s gaze entirely, instead gazing up at the tin roof, unblinking. The hammering rain was the only noise for an uncomfortably long length of time. Until –

“I am one of twenty eight young ballerinas with the Bolshoi. The training was hard. But the glory of Soviet culture, and the warmth of my parents made up for it. That was the lie I lived for so long." She sounded clinical and precise when she spoke, voice low yet never wavering, "They took us when we were very young. I remember nothing before the Red. Just _Red._ And then I met Peggy in 1946. And she helped me escape.”

The rain was a constant pummelling drone now. Angie had to hold her breath to hear Yelena’s soft, clipped voice through it all.

“I have managed to track down many of those behind the program that made me. But not all of them. Not Serov.”

Lying on her side, watching Yelena from an arm’s breadth away, Angie asked, “Did you ever save any of them? The other girls, I mean?”

Yelena turned her head and blinked, “I killed the ones I found, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jesus H. Christ.

Angie could just imagine it too. Yelena finding some of those girls. Yelena raising her pistol, aiming it right between their eyes. Yelena seeing herself when she shot them. Thinking it was a kindness. Wishing someone had been merciful enough to do the same to her all those years ago.

She was always Yelena when Angie imagined her like this. Chilly, passionless, _merciful_ Yelena.

Yelena who wanted and wanted yet never received.

Angie didn’t know what possessed her to speak then. Nothing but the guilt-stricken compulsion to share some secret in return.

“I’m thinking of having kids.”

Yelena went real quiet, and through the dark her eyes seemed to shine, “Kids?” She sounded breathless, choked, awestruck.

“Yeah,” Angie spoke in a rush, everything spilling out before she could stop herself, before she could remember who exactly she was talking to, before the old Yelena returned and ruined everything, “My Ma’s been pestering me about it. Peggy’s kind of freaked out by the thought, but I think that’s just because the idea is new. And, I mean, I’m starting to get on in years, so this may be my last shot, you know?”

Yelena did not reply, only continued to stare.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to try to kidnap my kids or something,” Angie half-joked.

“Tempting as the thought may be,” Yelena began slowly, “I’m afraid I’ll never have the opportunity.”

A puzzled frown creased Angie’s brow, “What do you mean?”

Yelena’s gaze sharpened to honed points, and she twisted her whole body on the mat to face Angie fully, “What do you think Serov injected you with back in Russia?”

Angie’s mouth went dry, and when she spoke it was muffled as though through dark glass, “Carbolic acid.”

At that Yelena let loose a harsh bark of laughter that was drowned out by the rain, “On those types of prisoners they use experimental drugs, and monitor its effects. Yours was a potent cocktail meant to copy a _particular_ serum. Side effects include faster reflexes and healing capabilities, prolonged life, and – my personal favourite – infertility.”

Her whole body was trembling with laughter now. Angie felt a chill along her spine as she watched Yelena break out in laughter so hard her pale eyes were pricked with tears.

“Children!” Yelena wiped at her eyes, shaking her head, mouth split with a smile like a wedge of watermelon was jammed into it sideways, “Oh, my dear Angie! The inability to bear children we want is just one more thing we have in common.”

“We are nothing alike,” Angie said numbly, and she tried to spit it out, tried to make it sound firm, resolute, yet even to her own ears it rang hollow.

Yelena hummed, biting the smile from her lip. Only small tremors of laughter rattled in her ribcage now, “Not yet, perhaps. Give it time. In half a century, when you’re all alone, you’ll look around you and I’ll be the only one left.”

Then with a lilting half-crazed giggle, Yelena rolled over and called out in a sing-song voice, “Sweet dreams!” 

 


	7. Chapter 7

It was easily the worst sleep Angie’d had in the last nine years. Ten years didn’t count, because ten years ago she was enduring torture and then the aftereffects of said torture, which involved a lot of sleepless nights.

But definitely the worst sleep in _nine_ years. Hands down.

The bugs didn’t help. Oh, they weren’t the main problem, but they certainly didn’t help. No, the main problem was Yelena Belova.

As far as Angie could tell, Yelena slept like a figurative log. Though she did have this strange habit of sleeping with one hand stretched over her head, which Angie could not imagine was very comfortable. Angie herself tossed and turned, and every time she returned to staring at the same spot on Yelena’s back. Right between her shoulder blades, where the ends of her hair curled blonde and spring-like.

Angie may or may not have entertained fantasies about taking a knife to that hair. She refused to confirm or deny.

Hey, give a girl a break. She’d had a difficult day to say the least. If shearing Yelena’s curls was the worst thing she could think of after being told point-blank that she could never have kids or a normal life, and that she would have to watch all her loved ones grow old and drop around her like fruit from a tree –

Well, it was no wonder she didn’t sleep, really.

Though it was a wonder she _didn’t_ go for a knife and do something drastic. Somehow she thought even asleep Yelena would be able to best her in a struggle.

Still, the fantasy was nice.

And that was the story of how Angie was still staring when Yelena rolled over in the pre-dawn overcast grey.

Yelena smiled at the dark circles under Angie’s eyes, “Good morning!”

Then she just popped right up from her threadbare mat on the floor, and started readying herself like it was any other Thursday, and not one that involved breaking into a high-security GRU base in the middle of fuck-off South America.

Alright, so that may have come off as a bit harsh. Normally Angie wasn’t one for foul language, but – well. There Yelena was, gathering her wheat-pale hair into a neat, tight, god-damn perfect bun at the base of her neck, and her words from the night before kept rolling around in Angie’s head, and boy, Angie really wanted to just _hit_ something.

Instead she stood, and her joints creaked. A vicious knot of muscle balled up like a fist right at the edge of one shoulder.

Oh, yeah. Did she mention that the beds were really uncomfortable? Because _wow_.

Less than ten minutes later, the pair of them were on their way again, leaving the dilapidated shack behind them. Angie couldn’t say she would miss it, all things considered. Yelena forced her to eat some rations from their packs, insisting that they had a long hike ahead of them, and an even longer day.

Boy, wasn’t that the understatement of the year. If Angie’d had any idea what sort of day she would have, she probably would’ve just smashed her own ribs in and saved herself the trouble.

Who needed ribs anyway?

By the time they reached the hidden bunker where Serov had holed himself up in, it was nearing mid-morning. As far as Angie could see from where she and Yelena peered behind a fallen log – a literal one this time – there was only a single entrance, heavily guarded. There was also a helicopter perched on a pad of bitumen to one side. Honestly, Angie was far more interested in that.

Where she would have expected something like a Kamov Ka-20 or a Mil Mi-8, or at least something of Russian design, there was instead a Sikorsky S-61R variant. One she had – miracle of miracles – never actually seen before. It was bulkier than the standard issue S-61R. Looked like it could travel longer distances too, what with that bulked up fuel tank.

Perfect for a getaway. Too bad helicopters were dangerous as heck, and she couldn’t fly one. Nor would she want to try – it’d probably tip sideways and send them careening into a glorious crash.

She nudged Yelena’s elbow, “Can you fly a chopper?”

Yelena shot her a look like Angie was still bumbling around in kindergarten, “Yes.”

Ok, good. Their escape was all planned out then. Now all that remained was actually getting inside this fortress of doom.

Seriously, who designed these places? Had they never heard of a colour outside of grey? Angie really wasn’t a big fan of grey.

Without saying a word Yelena crept forward, keeping low. Startled, Angie hissed, “Hey! What’s the plan?”

Yelena didn’t answer.

Muttering a string of curses under her breath, Angie followed. They skirted around the edge of the bunk. Even though Angie tried only treading in Yelena’s footsteps, she still managed to snap a few twigs that made her wince. Luckily the guards didn’t notice.

Yelena stopped over a ventilation shaft barely big enough for one set of narrow shoulders to fight through at a time, “Do you have a wrench?”

“I was born for this moment,” Angie opened a panel in her leg, revealing a set of metric combination wrenches and hex keys.

In a matter of minutes she had the ventilation shaft cover removed. Yelena didn’t even award her with a smile for her troubles. Just lowered herself into the shaft and dropped silently down on all fours like a cat.

“You’re welcome,” Angie grumbled, then followed suit. Albeit with far less grace and a lot more clanging.

She had a metal leg, alright? Clanging was just something that happened sometimes.

They crawled through the ventilation system, occasionally stopping while Yelena peered through a grate and into the rooms below. The entire time Angie was stuck in the rear, and had a not so pleasant view ahead of her. Could be worse, she supposed. Yelena could accidentally kick her in the face. Could be Howard’s unsightly behind she was exposed to instead.

Now  _that_ was the stuff of nightmares.

It came to Angie’s attention not long later that Yelena was used to working alone. More precisely she was most definitely not used to working with other people. Without any warning again, she punched through a metal grate and dropped down into the room below. Angie heard the beginning of a yell, followed by a scuffle, and by the time she popped her head through the ceiling Yelena had already taken down the room’s sole inhabitant.

Who turned out to be none other than Oleg Penkovsky.

“I thought he was on our side!” Angie whispered as she dangled from the ceiling by her hands before dropping heavily onto the ground.

“He is,” Yelena said, sounding distracted, and already rifling through his desk, “Which is why it would look suspicious if we left him unscathed. I’m protecting him.”

Angie gave a dubious look at Penkovsky’s bruised and battered body, “He doesn’t look very protected.”

“Or I could kill him,” Without looking up from the file she was reading, Yelena drew her pistol and aimed it at Penkovsky’s unconscious form.

“Or you could _not._ Jesus.”

Yelena shrugged and holstered the weapon.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Angie busied herself with looking around as well. Somewhere around here there must be information on where they were keeping Peggy. While Angie sincerely doubted she was being kept in a cell here – this place didn’t seem like it had the right facilities for prisoners, but what did she know? – she still hoped that Peggy was nearby. The thought of any more time spent alone with her newfound travel buddy was more than she could stomach.

Maps and diagrams were pinned to the walls. Angie cocked her head at them. She traced her finger in a circle around Cuba, pausing over a little red hourglass sticker in the Caribbean Sea.

Behind her Yelena let loose a spitting hiss like an angry cat, “Peggy’s been taken on Serov’s orders by one of _my kind_. She’s to be implicated in the missile fiasco on Cuba, then handed back over to the US government for a treason trial and execution.”

“I think I know where she is,” Angie tapped her finger on the map.

Yelena came up beside her and tore the map down, “We’ll need this for later.” She said, folding it up and slipping it into a pocket.

“Right,” Angie nodded, “Let’s go.” She dragged the desk chair to the vent and stood atop it, reaching for the hole in the ceiling.

“Not so fast.”

Angie paused and glanced down. As soon as she did so, she really wished she hadn’t. Yelena was aiming the combat shotgun at her, and before Angie could open her mouth, she pulled the trigger.

If this was what it felt like to get shot, then it was -- as Peggy would say -- complete _rubbish_. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.

The force of the blow sent Angie sprawling, knocked clean off the chair and onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling and wheezed for breath. It felt like she’d been kicked in the chest by a draught horse. While she’d certainly been in worse pain, this wasn’t something she’d like to repeat. Once was enough, thanks.

Yelena loomed over her, shotgun once again holstered over her shoulder, “Don’t worry. You won’t die. It’s just a bean bag.” She smiled and tossed said bean bag between her hands like it was a baseball, “Now, you be good and stay there. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She waggled her fingers and left Angie lying there on the floor.

Oh, of course. She was going after Serov. Angie should’ve seen that coming from a mile away. Instead she was too busy gasping for breath like an asthmatic pony running a marathon. Each breath was a short pant, little huffs that sent pain lancing in every direction around her torso.

Angie did know exactly how long she lay there. When she tried sitting up, she immediately regretted it. The next time, she rolled over onto her forearms, and slowly inched into a crouch. She used the nearby desk to clamber to her feet. While she would’ve liked to check the extent of the damage, the thought of even touching the zipper at her throat made her feel a bit woozy.

Staggering from the room, Angie made her way down the hall. The sound of muffled gunfire drew her to one door in particular. Carefully, she opened it, praying it didn’t squeak and reveal her presence.

Yelena and Serov were locked in heated close quarters combat. Serov kicked the Walther PPK from Yelena’s hand, but she ducked low, plunging a knife deep into his thigh. With a snarl he struck her full in the chest with a baton in his other hand. A burst of electricity crackled blue, and Yelena was flung backwards like a rag doll. From her place on the floor she writhed and groaned.

Ivan turned. His nose was broken. Blood dripped from his chin, slicking his bared teeth red. His gaze swung to the door and –

Angie froze. She tried back away, but every extremity trembled so badly she almost tripped.

There he was. In the flesh. Just like in her nightmares. He walked towards her with the knife still jutting from his thigh, crossing the space between them in great swallowing strides. Angie fumbled for the pistol at her hip, but he slapped it aside, clattering to the ground like a plastic toy.

With a flick of his wrist he touched the baton to her right leg, and every electrical impulse overloaded. She crashed to the ground inside the doorway, clutching at the prosthetic limb as it fluttered and seized.

Ivan cocked his head at her, and flecks of blood stained his otherwise immaculate white button-down shirt, “ _Anzhelochka,_ how good of you to join us. Wait a moment while I kill our friend,” he gestured with the baton to Yelena, who had been reduced to a twitching heap, “Then we will talk.”

It was dismissive, haughty, the way he turned his back on her. As though he expected her to be the same after all these years. He was almost right.

Almost.

As he approached Yelena, Angie immediately scrabbled at her leg for the weapon hidden there. The metallic plates constricted and sparked. Angie’s eyes darted to Serov’s broad shoulders, then back again to her leg. Fingers shaking, she swore under her breath when she failed to open the hidden compartment again and again. Until in a desperate last-ditched effort she jammed her fist against the panel, and the plates slid open, revealing the SIG P210 nestled safely within.

Yelena was struggling to sit upright. Serov stepped on her wrist, and a grenade rolled to the floor from her hand. Taking all the time in the world, he leaned over, picked up the grenade, and replaced the pin. Angie raised the gun before he could turn around. Before he could paralyse her again.

She shot him. Once. Twice. Four times.

She shot him until his body slumped to the floor, until the pistol clicked empty in her trembling, sweating hands. Then she scrambled backwards and was violently ill in the hallway.

She would have clutched at her stomach, but she was pretty sure there were already bruises blooming there like a whole damn bouquet of roses. Gritting past the pain, she lurched to her feet and inside the room. Nobody had come running – yet. If she hid the body, they might have just enough time to escape by the skin of their teeth.

With a grimace, Angie grabbed Serov by the feet and dragged him across the room, leaving a smear of blood in her wake. The only halfway decent hiding place was a broom-closet. Turned out it wasn’t a broom-closet though.

Unless all broom-closets in Bolivia glowed and swarmed with dark energy.

“Aww, hell!” Angie threw down Serov’s feet and leapt back.

From the outside the door appeared completely normal. Well, ok, so it was also made of what appeared to be grey-painted tungsten. That should have tipped her off that something was amiss. That and the fact that the frame had a series of thick bolts around the outside that connected to an internal generator, emitting a constant hum.

Could this day get any weirder?

On second thought, she didn’t want to know the answer to that.

The darkness pulsed and throbbed like a living thing, like irises bristling on a heady summer night, or entrails clotting thick upon altars. Angie wrinkled her nose at it.

_Gross._

Lifting Serov by the back of his shirt, Angie tried her best not to look at his face. It was easier if she pretended she was hauling something perfectly innocuous like a sack of potatoes. After a great deal of cursing and far less effort than she would’ve thought, she managed to tip his body through the doorway, where it slowly sank into the pitch as though he were sucked down into a tar pit.

Angie closed the door, then leaned on her knees to catch her breath. Across the room Yelena was kneeling and fighting to stand. Craning her neck back from where she was still bent double, Angie watched her with narrowed eyes.

She really should just leave Yelena here. Or better yet kill her and never have to worry about her ever again. Hell, Yelena would probably _thank_ her for it. But two dead bodies on her hands in a single day was a little over Angie’s quota. She didn’t think she could ever have a decent night’s sleep again if she did that. So, she did the only other thing she could think of.

With a sigh, Angie straightened, crossed over to Yelena, then helped her up.

“C’mon. Up and at ‘em,” she murmured.

Yelena grinned up at her, “Couldn’t bear to leave me behind?”

“Don’t think the thought didn’t cross my mind,” Angie grumbled, draping one of Yelena’s arms around her shoulders.

“Admit it. You like me.”

“No. I pity you. There’s a difference.” They limped together towards the exit, “Besides, who else is going to fly the helicopter?”

 

* * *

 

Peggy had thought that she’d encountered humiliating moments in her life. Between her long and chequered career dodging blatant misogyny and stepping on men’s egos as she clawed her way to the top of her profession, she’d figured that she had been exposed to the worst in terms of arrogance and mortification. As it turned out she was wrong. So very wrong.

She supposed it was only a matter of time until hubris got the better of her. She’d be nursing her own wounded ego for months after this all panned out. Years, even.

Provided that she survived, of course.

Peggy Carter: indomitable ex-Colonel of the British Armed Forces, Director the world’s largest spy and anti-terrorist organisation, the prisoner of a _child_.

An annoying child at that. If Peggy was certain about one thing, it was that she would never raise her children to be like that. No child of hers would have such a predilection for back-talk.

And it wasn’t as though Peggy hadn’t tried to escape. Because she had. Many times. Four times to be exact. But each and every time she had been foiled.

The first time, Peggy had managed to get her hands on a shard of glass when a window had broken. The crewmen had been moving heavy machinery to a more secure location, when a particularly nasty swell of the ocean had pitched the vessel sideways. The machinery had put a bulge in the metal bulwark, and shattered a few windows. A few of the crewmembers had glanced at her sideways when they entered the room to clean up, but none were brave enough to mention her presence. Not with the girl lurking around every corner like some sort of omnipresent Soviet ghost.

Later that night Peggy had painstakingly cut through her bindings, leaving bloody handprints all along the frayed rope. She’d gotten no further than two steps out the door, when the girl found her. A scuffle followed, and at least it had been a long one. Had it been any shorter, Peggy would have absolutely burned up with shame.

The second time Peggy had worked her bindings for hours and hours and hours on a rough corner of the cabin’s walls. This time Peggy had to knock out a few of the crewmen in her escape, causing a ruckus. During that little tussle, she’d been shot in the neck from behind with a tranquilizer. She woke up the next morning feeling queasy, but otherwise unharmed.

The third time Peggy crawled through the small window above the toilet while on one of her restroom breaks. She hadn’t been allowed to shower alone since.

The fourth time Peggy had managed to convince one of the younger more impressionable crewmen to ‘accidentally’ leave a behind a pen. Only when she stepped outside he was there, and the girl was too. Looking Peggy dead in the eye, she shot him as he’d cried and begged for his life.

She never did find out what happened to that pen after she’d dropped it.

Peggy would have continued her failed attempts at escape – Natasha couldn’t possibly be everywhere at once; she would slip eventually – but for the fact that she was thereafter administered daily sedatives. At first Natasha had given too high a dose, so that for two days afterwards Peggy spent her hours drooling onto her shoulder. That had been the most embarrassing. Having the Soviet witch-child wipe up her drool was far more embarrassing than casually being handed a towel after emerging naked from a cold shower.

That was how Peggy always thought of her now. The Soviet Witch-child. Hair like a pyre. Eyes like green button-glass.

Sometimes they spoke, she and Natasha. That was how Peggy had finally squeezed out her name. Yet every tiny grain of information Natasha gave Peggy could not help but feel was only given on purpose. Natasha worked with intent, every word mulled over like spiced wine and honeyed unleavened cakes fed to mad dogs.

At first they had discussed food, as odd as that may have sounded. They only ever spoke when it was time for Peggy to eat. Natasha admitted to knowledge of an excellent recipe for gulyás and spätzle. Peggy admitted to having exactly four meals she could cook with competence but not with flavour.

Natasha had poked at her stomach then, and said, “Not with a gut like that, you don’t.”

Peggy had given Natasha her best glare, “My… _friend_ cooks most of the time.”

There was no use hiding Angie. Natasha knew all about her. In fact Natasha’s next words had been, “You mean your spouse?”

“That’s not official.” Not for lack of wanting it to be. But times were what the times were.

Natasha just shrugged and stuffed Peggy’s mouth with another spoonful of sour _solyanka_ , “Call it what it is. What’s the worst that could happen? That I’d imprison you?”

Peggy did her best to look severe, but it was difficult when her mouth was full.

They didn’t talk over every meal. In fact most meals Natasha was completely silent, feeding Peggy swiftly and efficiently before leaving her alone once more. During those times, Peggy always felt that Natasha was looking right through her, as though Peggy weren’t even there. And if she did pay heed at all, then Peggy was nothing more than a life sized wax doll. Something to be dressed up and assembled, then left in the shadows until needed again.

Sometimes they spoke of more weighty subjects. Leviathan and HYDRA and SHIELD and the future at large. They traded secrets in the dark, always disciplined, always cunning, like purveyors of mysteries or oracles amidst smoke.

The one time Peggy mentioned the Red Room however, Natasha had clammed up. She’d left even though Peggy’s meal was only half finished, and she didn’t return for almost a full day afterwards.

At least Peggy never wanted for water. A large bottle had been strapped to the wall nearby, and a straw-like protrusion was always in reach if she turned her head.

She felt like a god damn hamster.

Lord, but she really needed to shoot something. Soon.

Through the drug-induced haze Peggy heard a commotion outside her cabin. After the first round of sedation had finally worn off, Natasha had eased up on the dosage. Peggy had played up how much it was effecting her, until she could think clearly again. Relatively clearly, anyway. At least the drooling had stopped.

A series of crashes, and the door opened, allowing a blade of light through the dark room. Peggy winced and blinked blearily up at –

Oh. That wasn’t Natasha.

“Geeze, Peg, you look terrible.”

Peggy laughed, a weak incredulous huff, as Angie crossed the room and cut her free, “It’s nice to see you too, Angie.” When Angie grinned and hauled her up, Peggy asked, “Where’s Natasha?”

“You mean the scary red-head?” Angie started hauling Peggy to the exit, “She and Yelena are having a good old fashioned Mexican standoff. We should probably hurry before anything drastic happens.”

Peggy thought that Angie was over exaggerating, but when they stumbled out onto the deck she realised that Angie had only been incredibly accurate.

“Or would this be a Russian standoff?” Angie mumbled to herself, looking between the two in question.

The minimal amount of crewmembers huddled together with their hands over their heads near the bow of the ship. Yelena and Natasha had both hands raised, armed with dual pistols and glares. But whereas both of Yelena’s weapons were pointed at Natasha, only one of Natasha’s was aimed at Yelena. The other was held to the back of the Captain’s head while he steered.

“Stop the boat,” Yelena’s voice was hard and dangerous.

Natasha cocked the pistol with her thumb, and the Captain flinched, “Belay that order, Captain. Full steam ahead.”

“It’s a diesel engine,” Yelena sneered.

Natasha smirked, “It’s an expression.”

Peggy glanced between then them, “This has to be a nightmare.”

Identical button-glass stares swung in her direction, and suddenly Peggy wished she’d been given a stronger dose of sedative.

Angie pressed one of her own pistols into Peggy’s hand and said, “Keep her busy, Yelena. I’m going to check out the engine room.”

At that Natasha’s nose twitched. It was an almost imperceptible tick, but Peggy had spent enough time with her to know that it mean Bad News.

The sound of a gunshot echoed, and the Captain dropped to the floor. Gun still trailing smoke, Natasha launched herself at Yelena.

“Maybe we should hurry, darling,” Peggy said to Angie.

“Shit. Right. Let’s go.”

They started hobbling towards the engine room, Peggy practically hopping along, half-carried, while Angie nursed one side of her chest. Angie’s arm dug into her waist, holding her up. With every step her head seemed to slowly clear, as though a creeping fog were lifting. Behind them the sounds of a ferocious struggle were in hot pursuit.

The engine itself was down a flight of stairs. Peggy took one look at them, and shook her head, “Go on. I’ll cover the entrance for you.”

“You sure?” Angie’s face was pinched with concern.

“Yes. I’m fine.” A bullet pinged on the metal bulwark beside Peggy’s head, and she ducked down, “Now, go!”

Nodding, Angie scampered down the stairs, every alternate footstep clanking.

Peggy dropped down into a kneeling position and raised the SIG P210. In normal conditions she would have been able to thread the eye of a needle with a firearm like this, but now she wasn’t so sure. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, but Yelena and Natasha seemed to blend into one another, and the air looked soupy.

The two traded blows so quickly their limbs blurred. Or maybe that was just the drugs. Block. Parry. A fist to the gut earned a grunt from Natasha, and she retaliated with a jab of her elbow to Yelena’s nose. A sickening crack followed. Yelena rounded with a backslap that did more to stun than anything else, then caught Natasha with a kick to the chest, knocking her back.

“How’s it going down there?” Peggy called, still training the muzzle of her gun at the two in front of her.

“She’s rigged it so that it’ll go forward pretty much no matter what.” Angie’s voice echoed up from the lower level, accompanied by the clank of metal and the hiss of steam, “Ow! Damn!”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, fine! Just burned my thumb is all!”

Peggy squinted past Yelena and Natasha, still locked in tireless combat. In the distance bulky shapes loomed. Peering over the side of the ship, Peggy saw two other ships of the same make as their own peeling away out of formation and turning back. Their ship, however, stayed on course, approaching those bulky shapes on the not-so-far horizon.

Those bulky shapes almost looked like a whole line of ships. Like a –

_Oh no._

“Angie? How long will it take to shut the engines down, do you reckon?” Peggy called out.

More clanging. “I don’t know? Twenty minutes? Tops.”

Peggy’s grip on the pistol tightened, “Could you make it five minutes, please?”

“What’s the big hurry? We’re nowhere near land.”

Yelena’s spare handgun went skittering along the deck. She grabbed Natasha by the back of the neck and brought her face crashing down repeatedly into her knee. Natasha wriggled out of the hold, flipping Yelena over into the opposite wall, where she then drove her fists into Yelena’s torso, each hit a dull _thwack_.

“We’re approaching a blockade,” Peggy shouted back in answer, “If we cross it, we’ll start a nuclear war. No pressure!” She added with a grimace.

“Gee, thanks!”

Peggy’s gaze flicked between the pair of Soviet spies and the blockade slowly encroaching from the muddy horizon. Yelena had a fistful of Natasha’s red hair clenched between her fingers, teeth bared in a snarl, when Natasha’s hand snapped upwards, jamming a very familiar looking pen into Yelena’s eye.

Shrieking, Yelena staggered back, clutching at her face. Natasha whirled around towards the engine room, and Peggy fired. Right at the same time, the engine ground to a halt, pistons screeching.

Natasha stumbled and clutched at the bullet hole low on her stomach, just above her hipbone. One hand slapped against the bulwark as she propped herself up. Before she could recover, two arms seized her from behind, and with a grappling swing, Yelena pitched them both overboard.

Peggy scrambled to her feet to peer over the edge, but all she saw were white-capped waves beating against the hull.

Angie emerged from the engine room not moments later, smeared with grease, “What happened?”

Leaning her back against the side of the ship, Peggy slumped to the floor, “They went over.”

“ _Jesus._ ” Angie breathed. She joined her on the ground, lowering herself gingerly, wincing as she folded her middle, “Are they –?”

Peggy ran her hands through her hair, “I don’t know.” She sighed and tipped her head back, “Lord, I’m glad that’s over.”

“You and me both,” Angie reached over to squeeze Peggy’s free hand.

Peggy closed her eyes and allowed herself – just for a moment – to indulge in the warmth of Angie’s grungy, oil-blackened hand in hers, “Remind me to never raise our kids like that.”

“Yeah, about that.” Angie’s grip tightened until it was painful, knuckles flashing white and bloodless, “We need to talk.”


	8. Chapter 8

When they returned home, the very first thing Peggy did was take a hot shower. Then she flopped face-first onto their large fluffy bed, and refused to move for three days.

Oh, she walked around the house and dropped right back into her old workout routine – it really did feel wonderful being able to have a go at her punching bag again. But the thought of returning to SHIELD headquarters and having to endure the shame of everyone knowing how badly she had cocked everything up was enough to make her avoid the prospect like the plague for as long as she possibly could.

On the third night at the dinner table, Angie muttered something about soldiers and cowardice. It had been said purely to get a rise out of Peggy, and Peggy knew it too.

Damn her, but it worked.

The next morning Peggy had buttoned herself up in her most severe looking suit and skirt combo, shoulders squared, chin up. Like a soldier, dammit. _Dulce et decorum est._

Where she expected whispers and sidelong glances at the bumbling Director however, she was received with something else entirely. Something far worse.

Applause.

She walked in and everyone leapt to their feet. They clapped and whistled and hollered. Some even came up to shake her hand. Between the rows of desks she walked, utterly shell-shocked.

And to make it all that much worse, Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson himself stood at the end of the rows of desks to announce that he would be awarding her a Defence Distinguished Service Medal in three weeks’ time with all proper ceremony.

At least when he shook her hand he looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. Small mercies. Very small mercies.

As soon as she could escape, Peggy holed herself up in her office. That was how Angie and Howard found her, face planted onto her desk, praying for a swift, painless, merciful death.

“Is this why you don’t like talking about all your medals?” Angie asked as she closed the door behind them.

Peggy groaned, and her voice was muffled by the desk, “This is almost as bad as Latvia.”

“Ok, what the hell happened in Latvia?” Angie asked.

In response Peggy just groaned wordlessly into the desk.

“Well, I for one think this all went very well,” Howard rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

At that Peggy raised her head and squinted suspiciously at him, “You organised all this, didn’t you?”

“Who? Me?” He put his hand over his heart, doing his best to look wounded, “No way! Johnson came to the conclusion of a medal all on his lonesome! All I did was disseminate certain information.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Peggy growled, “They will never find your remains.”

Before any violence occurred, Angie stepped around the desk and placed a hand on Peggy’s shoulder, “Oh, come on. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“I was captured and held hostage for over two weeks! Oh, my god,” Peggy gasped, and her eyes went wide, “I’m turning into Thompson.” She dropped her head back down to the desk with a hard smack, “ _You’re_ the one who should be receiving the damn medal, Angie!”

“I hate to break it to you, hun, but I’m not military,” Angie rubbed Peggy’s back, adding, “And I don’t look nearly as good in uniform.”

Peggy’s one small consolation was that the Soviet’s rolled up Leviathan a week later. She still had to attend the ceremony to have yet another medal pinned to her chest – all the while trying to hold back the burn of shame from her face. Apparently all that accomplished was to make her look more austere and distinguished than ever. At least that’s what Daniel told her when he showed her the photos from the evening in question.

But at least Leviathan was gone for good.

Such small mercies.

That being said, the news of Leviathan came with an unexpected guest.

People were still talking about her in awed hushed whispers at SHIELD headquarters a week after she returned. Peggy grit her teeth so hard, she was sure she would have to see a dentist for permanent damage to her molars. When she entered the kitchen to stuff her pockets full of Jaffa cakes, Daniel was there, making the morning’s first pot of coffee.

He grinned knowingly at the muscle tick in her jaw, “Morning, Ma’am. You’re looking as dignified as ever.”

“So help me God, I will end you,” she snarled while she ripped open a packet of Jaffa cakes, spilling half the packet all over the floor. With a string of foul curses she leaned over to snatch them up off the ground.

He bit his lip to keep from laughing as he knelt down to help, “I would put these on a plate instead of in your pockets this morning. You have a visitor waiting for you in your office.”

“Should I be worried?” she asked as she rose.

He shrugged and straightened, “That depends.”

Slapping a few handfuls of cakes onto a plate, Peggy sighed, “Thank you, Daniel.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Tucking the morning paper under one arm, Peggy grabbed the plate and made her way over to her office. The blinds were drawn. She opened the door and froze.

Sitting in her chair, feet up on her desk, smoking one of the cigarettes from her emergency stash, was none other than Yelena Belova.

Peggy recovered quickly and slammed the door. “Out of my chair,” she snapped.

Yelena tucked her legs down and stood. Through the potent reeds of smoke, she perched herself on the corner Peggy’s desk while Peggy dropped heavily into the chair and let the plate of Jaffa cakes clatter atop a stack of files.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Peggy admitted. She stuffed a cake into her mouth and chewed. The gash on her lip had partially healed to a livid pink, but it still stung whenever she ate. Applying lipstick every morning was a task unto itself.

“Growing sentimental in your old age?” Yelena asked. As she inhaled, the cigarette burned, illuminating the pale patch of gauze over her right eye.

Peggy ignored the jab as best she could, but her tone still came out clipped, “What happened to Natasha?”

“I can’t honestly say,” Yelena exhaled and tapped the end of her cigarette into the nearby ashtray, “Although her allegiances don’t lie with Leviathan any longer.”

“And why is that?”

The corners of Yelena’s mouth curled into a red, cruel, triumphant smile, “Because Leviathan is dead.”

Peggy’s hand paused as she reached for another cake. Instead she slowly leaned back into her chair and looked Yelena full in the face, “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. The order went out yesterday morning from Khrushchev himself. Leviathan is being dismantled as we speak.”

With an incredulous huff of laughter Peggy shook her head. She reached up, grabbed the cigarette from Yelena, and took a long drag before returning it, “And HYDRA?”

Yelena shrugged, raising the cigarette to her lips once more, “Still at large. They’ll be salvaging as much intel from the wreckage of Leviathan as they can. Which,” she pointed out with a stern glance, “we should be doing as well.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

Yelena blinked. For the first time in a long time, she appeared genuinely caught off guard, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Peggy smiled, “Join as SHIELD’s official resident advisor on Soviet matters, and I’ll arrange a full pardon.”

Yelena licked her lips. She leaned over to stab out the cigarette and slid from the desk, “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” Peggy said as Yelena retreated to the door, “My offer won’t last forever.”

Hand on the doorknob, Yelena paused, “By the way,” she looked over her shoulder and pointed at her own lip where a thin white scar cut a jagged line upwards, “We match!”

Peggy rolled her eyes and reached for another cake, “Thank God I still have both of my eyes, then.”

“You have a dangerous job, Director. Anything could happen.”

Then she left, and not a minute later Angie entered.

Immediately Peggy straightened in her seat and swallowed, “Good morning! You’re here early!”

Angie jerked a thumb over her shoulder, “Was that who I think it was?”

Peggy cleared her throat, “Yes. She’ll be staying with SHIELD for some time now.”

The line of Angie’s back was rigid, but she forced an overly bright smile, “Great! That should be useful!”

“If you’re not comfortable with it, I could –” Peggy began, but Angie cut her off before she could finish.

“No, it’s fine! I just came to work on a manual override device for my leg.” She rapped her knuckles on her thigh, “I’ll see you back home for dinner!”

Then she too left. Although it could more accurately be described as ‘fled.’

After that initial discussion on the ship in the Caribbean – during which Angie had haltingly explained everything while clutching Peggy’s hand like a lifeline – they hadn’t spoken about it at all. Over the next few weeks Peggy tried raising it in conversation whenever it could be considered appropriate, but every time without fail Angie would shut down the discussion. Her smile would brighten, so broad her face should have cracked, and she would race back to the safety of her lab for work on some ‘very important calibrations.’

It felt like 1945 in RAE Farnborough all over again. Except worse.

At last Peggy cornered her in their kitchen one evening while Angie was doing dishes. Normally she would have left Angie alone – as much as she wanted to force a conversation out of her, home was a sacred space which shouldn’t feel that sort of pressure – but for the fact that Angie had been scrubbing at the same baking pan for almost three quarters of an hour. The water in the sink had gone tepid, and the steel wool had scoured Angie’s fingers red and raw.

Peggy put her hands softly on Angie’s shoulders, and murmured, “We really should talk about it.”

Angie shrugged Peggy’s hands off. She continued scrubbing furiously. “Not now,” she muttered.

“Angie…”

“No, Peg!” Angie slammed the pan down into the sink, sending a wave of water sloshing over onto the marble countertops, “I can’t think about that, alright! I can’t spend my days thinking about watching you grow old while I -!”

She choked on the words. Her leg let loose a series of harsh clicks and constrictions. She kept her forearms submerged in soapy water.

Peggy didn’t step closer, didn’t touch, though she wanted to, “But I _need_ to talk about it. The uncertainty is killing me.”

Angie didn’t answer, just seemed to shrink into herself, smaller and smaller, until Peggy was sure she would disappear entirely.

And that was the real fear. That Angie would disappear. Vanish into thin air. Like wheeling smoke.

“Talk to me. _Please._ ” Peggy begged. She did step forward then, because she couldn’t stand being this close, this far away, “About anything.”

With a deep shuddering breath Angie spoke, still keeping her back turned, “Did I tell you I threw up when I killed Serov?”

Peggy shook her head before realising that of course Angie didn’t see the motion, “No.”

“Well, I did. Threw up all over the floor. I felt so full of _stuff_. Filth. I just needed to be empty again.” Her elbows dug inwards to her stomach, “I thought he’d taken everything from me he could, but even now he takes from me.”

“Ivan Serov is dead,” Peggy assured her.

“Yeah. I know. I still feel full, though. Still feel like I want to be empty.”

“You can’t just run away from this.”

A stray drip of water from the tap. “You sure about that?”

Peggy’s mouth went dry. She stared at Angie’s back, at the wisps of hair at the slope of her neck to the way her shirt hung from her shoulders. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

She couldn’t say it ten years ago, when she should have. But she could say it now. When it was the most selfish time to do so.

At that Angie turned, face screwed up in a puzzled frown, “Go? What are you talking about?”

Now it was Peggy’s turn to bite her lip and look away. At the floor. At the ceiling. Anywhere but at Angie.

“Oh, English,” Angie murmured, and suddenly her hands were there, cupping Peggy’s cheeks and dripping soapy suds down her wrists, “You’re not still afraid of that, are you? You know I could never leave. Not if I lived to be a thousand. Which, hey –” she cracked a watery smile, “—I just might!”

Peggy laughed weakly, and brought her hands up to cover Angie’s, “Thank you.”

Angie’s cold thumbs stroked over the bluffs of Peggy’s cheekbones, “For what?”

“Telling me about Serov.”

Her thumbs stopped, then resumed again. Slower this time. Shakier, “I don’t want to burden you with this sort of stuff.”

Peggy pulled Angie’s hands away to press a kiss to each palm, “That’s what I’m here for, darling.”

That earned the first real smile out of Angie in weeks. She leaned in and rested her forehead against Peggy’s, and for a long moment they stood in warm comfortable silence. Peggy’s eyes slid shut, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Then she felt a cold wet finger tap her nose, “In that case, you can help me explain to my mother that she’s never getting grandkids from me.”

Peggy went pale as a sheet.

Honestly, she’d rather be back on the boat with Natasha.

That was how Peggy found herself once more standing outside her in-laws’ front door, gathering up every last scrap of courage and dignity she had left. Which wasn't much, to tell the truth. This time though, Angie was by her side with the bottle of wine, looking just as nervous.

Peggy stamped her feet in the cold November night, “Should we tell them about the leg while we’re at it?”

“Oh, god no!” Angie’s grip around the neck of the wine bottle tightened, “They’re never ever going to know about the leg. Do you have a death wish?”

“Right. Of course. My mistake.”

Silence, broken only by traffic trundling by on the street behind them, and by the playful screech of Angie’s nephews from inside. Angie sighed, her breath trembling frosty in the air, “Shame, really.”

Peggy looked over at her curiously, “What’s that? Should I have brought flowers again? I thought your mother hated the lilies I brought last time?”

Angie shook her head, and though she smiled her eyes were a little too bright, “No, not that. It’s just – I really did want kids. At some point, anyway.”

Peggy wrapped an arm around Angie’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze, laying a kiss on her hairline, “I’m sorry.”

She was too. It was all her fault, after all. If not for her, Angie would still be a happy mechanic somewhere in New York after the War. Probably working in one of her father’s garages. Blissfully unaware of the horrors of Peggy’s world. More than anything Peggy wished she could give her back some small piece of that lost life. Peggy Carter was many things, but the ideal life partner was not one of them.

Angie turned and gave her a smile, roguish to cover up the fact that she really was torn up about the whole thing, “Looks like you’re the one who’s going to have to bear the kids.”

Peggy stared at her, realising that Angie was only half-joking. “But I already have Howard!” she blurted out.

The first few flakes of snow drifted down from the overcast sky, a luminous overcast grey, and Angie laughed. She wiped discreetly at her eyes, then leaned up on her toes to kiss Peggy’s cheek, “Let’s get this over with, already.”

Smiling, Peggy raised her hand, now dusted with a light freckling of snow, and she knocked on the Martinelli’s front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part is forthcoming. Keep your eyes open for part 4: "The Twin-Fingered God."


End file.
